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THE   MODERN   DRAMA  SERIES 
EDITED   BY  EDWIN   BJORKMAN 


LOVERS      •      THE     FREE    WOMAN 
THEY     •     BY    MAURICE     DONNAY 


LOVERS: 

THE  FREE  WOMAN: 

THEY 

THREE    PLAYS    BY 

MAURICE  DONNAY 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH 
WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

BARRETT  H.  CLARK 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

MCMXV 


COPYRIGHT,    1915,   BY  MITCHELL  KENNERLEV 


1j 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction  vii 

Chronological  List  of  Plays  xii 

Lovers  S 

The  Free  Woman  133 

They!  247 


jC  'p-v  tr-.T  .'"■'  .'•"•  .r\ 


INTRODUCTION 

Life  to  Maurice  Donnay  is  a  series  of  love  stories. 
He  once  said,  "A  play  is  a  love  story,  and  since  that 
story  is  laid  in  various  places,  we  are  led  to  believe  that 
plays  differ."  And  Donnay's  plays  differ  among 
themselves  only  in  the  degree  to  and  manner  in  which 
they  are  treated.  Sex  is  the  motive  power  which  actu- 
ates his  characters:  it  is  the  protagonist  of  all  his 
work.  It  might  almost  be  urged  that  free  love — if  by 
free  we  mean  independent  of  the  conventions  of  mar- 
riage and  society — is  the  subject  of  his  stories.  He  is 
very  little  concerned  with  morality,  and  the  rare  occa- 
sions upon  which  he  ventures  to  treat  it  are  to  be  found 
not  in  the  plays,  but  in  interviews  and  prefaces.  In 
his  Dedication  to  Moliere  (in  Le  Menage  de  Moliere) 
he  says:  "The  conjugal  accident  no  longer  amuses  us: 
it  appears  to  us  as  a  social  necessity,  yes,  a  shameful 
but  logical  consequence  of  marriage  as  it  is  most  fre- 
quently practised  in  the  society  of  our  day."  In  his 
best  plays,  like  Lovers  and  The  Free  Woman,  this 
dramatist  is  content  merely  to  paint  certain  sections  of 
life  as  he  sees  them,  to  analyze  the  thoughts  and  sensa- 
tions of  his  lovers,  and  to  allow  the  audience  to  draw 
what  conclusions  it  will.  Only  by  implication  is  It 
possible  to  read  into  these  plays  any  moral  attitude: 
Donnay  is  far  too  great  an  artist  to  attach  a  moral  to 
his  work,  or  attempt  to  develop  one  out  of  the  action 
or  the  interplay  of  character  upon  character.     This 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

of  course  does  not  mean  that  he  is  immoral  in  his  atti- 
tude: his  frankness,  his  sincerity,  his  openmindedness 
will  surely  free  him  of  any  charge  of  immorality. 
Where  other  Frenchmen  insinuate,  where  Americans 
sentimentalize,  where  Englishmen  either  ignore  or  sen- 
timentalize, Donnay  speaks  what  appears  to  him  as  the 
bare  truth:  love,  either  within  or  without  the  marriage 
bond,  is  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  potent  factors  of 
life ;  it  is  sometimes  cruel ;  occasionally  brutal ;  often, 
because  of  the  insincerity  of  human  beings,  a  force  for 
evil ;  but  always  a  vast  force  to  be  reckoned  with. 

Donnay  is  one  of  the  few  living  artists  of  the  Realis- 
tic school  of  drama ;  he  stands  with  Porto-Riche  and 
Schnitzler,  with  whom  he  has  many  qualities  in  com- 
mon. He  possesses  the  brilliance  of  the  latter,  the  bal- 
ance of  the  Frenchman,  his  logic  as  well  as  his  deep 
feeling;  his  sentiment  never  degenerates  into  senti- 
mentality, his  temperament — while  it  is  not  greatly 
dissimilar  from  that  of  Porto-Riche — is  thoroughly 
healthy,  and  he  never  goes  to  extremes. 

Donnay  was  born  in  1859  at  Paris,  of  a  well-to-do 
middle-class  family  in  the  district  of  Montmartre, 
where  the  young  Maurice  was  destined  to  begin  his 
artistic  career  not  many  years  later.  In  accordance 
with  the  wishes  of  his  ambitious  parents  he  prepared 
himself  for  the  profession  of  civil  engineer  and  in  1885 
entered,  somewhat  against  his  wishes,  a  contractor's 
office.  He  was  evidently  ill-suited  for  the  work,  and 
six  years  later,  as  a  result  of  his  appearing  in  public 
at  a  cabaret  on  Montmartre,  where  he  recited  some 
verses  of  his  own,  he  was  asked  to  resign.  Between 
1889  and  1891  he  wrote  and  recited  a  number  of  grace- 
ful   if    occasionally    vulgar    monologues,    which    were 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

keenly  appreciated  by  the  habitues  of  the  Chat  noir. 
In  1892  his  first  play,  Lysistrata,  was  performed  at 
the  Grand  Theatre;  it  was  immediately  successful,  and 
attracted  some  notice.  The  story  and  the  wit  of  the 
Aristophanic  comedy  appealed  to  the  kindred  spirit  of 
the  French  people;  Donnay's  own  wit  and  originality, 
however,  made  of  the  Greek  original  a  truly  French 
play.  The  next  important  play  was  his  most  success- 
ful and  is  certainly  his  most  brilliant  achievement, 
Lovers.  Jules  Lemaitre,  a  great  authority,  a  keen  and 
catholic  critic,  pronounced  this  play  "probably  a  mas- 
terpiece." He  was  speaking  of  the  piece  in  its  rela- 
tion with  French  dramatic  literature,  not  merely  con- 
temporaneous writing.  The  praise  of  critics  and  pub- 
lic soon  brought  the  young  man  fame,  and  prepared  a 
respectful  and  often  enthusiastic  hearing  for  the  many 
plays  which  were  yet  to  come. 

La  Douloureuse  presents  another  aspect  of  the  eter- 
nal question  of  sex :  in  this  woman's  play,  the  dramatist 
tells  of  the  effect  of  deep  passion  on  a  woman's  char- 
acter. Roger  le  Brun,  the  author  of  a  little  mono- 
graph on  Donnay,  gives  a  clear  idea  of  the  dramatist's 
underlying  thought  in  this  play,  and  makes  the  state- 
ment applicable  to  all  his  work :  "...  Jove,  as  a  re- 
sult  of  social  conventions,  for  the  most  part  hypocriti- 
caUydisguiscd  by  pueri_l£_ii£ntimontalitv,  io  foi::cedLto 
do  service  for  the  basest  appetites  as  well  as  the  most 
aijj^Tf|cTST"PTri7rFTr>Tis :  it  is  dcbased^^by  lies,  by  tricks,  by 
the  ^yarice  of  man^  sidetrankpd  frQjn_  its  true  ana 
proper  functions,  going  hand  in  hand  with  all  our  mis- 
deeds  like  a  monstrous  and  vile  thing."  This  "de- 
basement by^iies"  is  the  theme  of  La  Douloureuse  and 
The  Free  Woman.     Donnay  harks  back  a  moment  to 


INTRODUCTION 


Ibson,  when  he  shows  tlic  iinliappj  result  of  a  long- 
hidden  lie.  Georgette  Lemeuiiicr,  Le  Torrent,  L'Autre 
danger,  Le  Retour  de  Jerusalem,  arc  all  variants  on 
the  everlasting  love-motif,  but  with  consummate  ar- 
tistry Donnaj  manages  to  extract  each  time  some  new 
and  interesting  idea,  some  novel  matter  for  admira- 
tion. Le  Menage  de  Molicre,  one  of  his  latest  plays, 
is  a  long  historical  verse  play,  but  again  it  is  con- 
cerned with  the  love-interest,  not  primarily  the  literary 
or  historical. 

Donnay's  qualities  of  cleverness,  his  broad  sympa- 
thy, his  penetrating  insight  into  human  nature,  are 
nowhere  seen  to  better  advantage  than  in  Amants  and 
L'Affranchie,  which  are  the  first  two  plays  in  the  pres- 
ent volume.  Amants,  while  its  situations  are,  it  is  true, 
foreign — the  externals  bearing  upon  characters  known 
only  to  certain  sections  of  Continental  society — is  re- 
plete with  scenes  of  throbbing  life.  The  story  of  a 
"free"  union,  which,  comments  Donnay,  is  not  free 
after  all,  the  love  affair  of  two  born  lovers,  the  vary- 
ing moods  and  tempests  of  their  passion,  the  agony 
of  the  breaking-ofF,  the  final  "cure,"  are  deftly  and 
sympathetically  portrayed.  There  is  a  poetry  in  the 
situation,  the  spirit  of  which  is  beautifully  apparent 
throughout.  The  play  leaves  one  with  that  feeling 
of  quiet  sadness,  which  the  same  situation  in  hfe  would 
leave. 

UAffranchie,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  trifle  more 
purposeful,  if  the  term  be  not  out  of  place  in  a  discus- 
sion of  Donnay's  plays.  Here  is  the  picture  of  a  lov- 
ing yet  weak  woman,  a  kind  of  chastened  Iris.  An- 
tonia  is  the  incarnation  of  many  of  the  finer  qualities 
of  woman,  yet  she  lies  with  the  unconsciousness  of  the 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

weakest  of  her  sex.  Her  lover  insists  that  the  moment 
she  ceases  to  love  him  she  tell  him  of  it,  frankly  and 
fearlessly.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  fails  to  realize 
that  she  has  stopped  loving  him,  even  when  she  takes 
a  new  lover.  The  free  union  which  in  Amants  was  as 
freely  broken  off  as  it  was  entered  upon  drags  to  its 
miserable  yet  under  the  circumstances  logical  conclu- 
sion, because  one  of  the  two  has  been  deceitful. 

Eux!  {They!)  is  a  gay  trifle,  included  here  as  an 
example  of  the  author's  earliest  manner.  The  artifi- 
ciality, the  wit,  the  heartlessness  of  the  young  man 
soon  gave  way  to  the  infinitely  more  human  works  of 
his  early  maturity. 

There  is  no  comment,  no  criticism  in  these  plays : 
they  are  works  of  art  and  works  of  literature,  besides 
being  successful  and  interesting  plaj's.  Donnay  is  a 
phenomenon  which  could  not  exist  under  present  con- 
ditions either  in  England  or  in  America :  a  true  artist, 
saying  what  he  likes  in  the  manner  best  fitted  to  his 
temperament. 


CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST    OF    PLAYS 
BY    MAURICE    DONNAY 

They  (Eux),  1889; 

Lysistrata  (Lysistrata),  1892; 

The  Family  Hotel  (Pension  de  Famille),  1894<; 

The  Auger  (La  Vrillc),  1895; 

Lovers  (Amants),  1895; 

Paying  the  Bill  (La  Doulourcuse),  1897; 

The  Free  Woman  (L'AfFranchic),  1898; 

Georgette  Lemeunier  (Georgette  Lcmeunler),  1898; 

The  Mill-Race  (Le  Torrent),  1899; 

The  Education  of  the  Prince  (Education  de 
Prince),  1900; 

The  Clearing  (La  Clairiere),  1900  (in  collaboration 
with  Lucien  Descaves)  ; 

The  Seesaw  (La  Bascule),  1901; 

The  Alternate  Risk  (L'Autre  Danger),  1902; 

The  Return  from  Jerusalem  (Le  Retour  de  Jeru- 
salem), 1903; 

The  Escalade  (L'Escalade),  1904; 

Birds  of  Passage  (Oiseaux  de  passage),  1904<  (in 
collaboration  with  Lucien  Descaves)  ; 

Appearances  (Paraitre),  1906; 

The  Boss  of  the  House  (La  Patronne),  1908; 

Moliere's  Household  (Le  Menage  de  Moliere),  1912; 

The  Emancipated  Women  (Les  Eclaireuses),  1913. 


LOVERS 

(Am  ants) 

a  comedy  in  five  acts 

1895 


PERSONS    IN    THE    PLAY 


Vetheuil 

RUYSEUX 

De  Sam bee 

Prunier 

Ravier 

schlixder 

Gaudeeic 

Prosper 


A  Servant 
Claudine  Rozay 
Henriette  Jamine 
Suzanne  Gregeois 
Adele  Sorbier 
Fraulein 

English  Governess 
Denise  Rozay 


LOVERS 


FIRST  ACT 

The  drawing-room  in  Claudine  Rozaifs  apartment. 
Place  des  Etats-Unis.  At  the  back  is  a  large  hay- 
wimdow  through  which  are  seen  the  tall  chestnut-trees 
of  the  square.  A  Punch-and-Judy  show  has  been  set 
up  betzveen  two  doors.  Down-stage  sit  half  a  dozen  lit- 
tle girls  and  boys,  very  stylishly  dressed  in  noticeably 
English  clothes;  behind  them  are  their  respective  gov- 
ernesses, English  and  German,  and  then  their  mothers, 
elegantly  attired  young  women.  As  the  curtain  rises, 
the  play  of  Punch-and-Judy  is  drazmng  to  a  close. 
Little  Punch  is  beating  the  policeman;  then  Judy, 
sumptuously  dressed  in  yellow  and  blue,  announces  the 
end  of  the  comedy.  The  audience  rise,  disperse,  then 
form  into  groups. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Charming!  Delightful!  I  must  confess  I  enjoyed  it 
quite  as  much  as  the  children! 

MADAME  SORBIER 

I  laughed  because  they  did.  {Georges  and  Gaston 
Sorbier,  unbearable  little  rascals  in  sailor  suits, 
jostle  each  other  and  quarrel.)  Georges!  Gaston! 
Stop  it!  Those  children  are  simply  frightful !  Frau- 
lein,  you  must  not  leave  them  for  a  single  instant — 


LOVERS  [act  I 


see  what  happens !  You  need  have  no  fear  of  being 
too  severe  with  them. 

FRAULEIN 

But  Madame,  if  they  refuse  to  listen  to  me — ?  M. 
Gaston  called  me  a  fool  just  now. 

MADAME  SORBIER 

Never  mind  that.  Now,  it's  about  time  we  were 
going.  But  you,  Gaston,  are  to  copy  the  sentence, 
"I  must  not  call  Friiulein  a  fool,"  one  hundred  times. 
That  will  teach  you  a  lesson !  Put  on  your  hats 
now.  {Madame  Sorhier  disappears  into  the  back- 
ground, together  with  Frdulein,  Georges  and  Gas- 
ton.) 

CLAUDINE 

Ladies,  I  should  like  to  introduce  to  you  M.  Ernest 
Ravier,  the  author  of  the  play  you  have  just  seen. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

So  you  are  the  clever  manipulator  of  these  little  pup- 
pets ? 

RAVIER 

Yes,  Madame,  I  am. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Real  talent ! 

CLAUDINE 

M.  Ravier's  father  is  opposed  to  his  son's  pursuing 
a  theatrical  career. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Artistic  murder,  I  call  it ! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

I  am  sure  you  would  write  lovely  plays  for  the 
Fran9ais ! 


ACT  i]  LOVERS 


EAVIER 

{Modestly)  That  is  not  quite  the  same  as  writing 
for  Punch-and-Judy. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Oh,  when  Scapin  beats  the  man  in  the  sack ! 

SCHLINDER 

There  is  not  so  much  difference  after  all — amusing 
children  and  grown-ups.  Men  are  only  overgrown 
children. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

For  whose  benefit  did  you  make  that  remark? 

MADAME   GUEGEOIS 

But,  Monsieur,  for  my  part  I  was  vastly  amused. 
Why,  every  stroke  that  was  showered  on  the  police- 
man's back  convulsed  me. 

SCHLINDER 

Very  amusing,  is  it  not,  Madame.?  You  like  to  see 
authority  get  the  worst  of  it.^* 

MADAME   GREGEOIS 

It  is  always  quite  irresistible. 

SCHLINDER 

Hm!     {He  joins  Mme.  Sorbier,) 

MADAME  JAMINE 

You  did  put  your  foot  in  it,  my  dear !  Do  you  know 
who  that  gentleman  is.'' 

MADAME   GREGEOIS 

No. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Schlinder,  the  Chief  of  Police. 

MADAME   GREGEOIS 

Heavens!  And  I  told  him  I  liked  to  see  authority 
get  the  worst  of  it ! 


6  LOVERS  [act  I 

EAVIER 

That  needn't  trouble  you,  Madame ;  Schlinder  is  not 
the  least  bit  sensitive.  He  is  most  accommodating, 
too;  for  instance,  if  you  wish  to  get  special  permis- 
sion to  do  anything,  if  you  want  information  about 
a  cook,  or  wish  to  meet  the  Grand  Dukes,  you  may 
safely  confide  in  him. 

MADAME   GREGEOIS 

I'm  very  glad  to  know  it — I  must  ask  a  favor  of  him. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

So  must  I. 

MADAME   GREGEOIS 

How  does  he  happen  to  be  here  at  Claudine's  .'* 

MADAME  JAMINE 

He's  very  much  in  love  with  Mme.  Sorbier. 

MADAME   GREGEOIS 

Ah,  I  see. 

RAVIER 

She  would  neglect  her  duties  and  home  to  keep  in 
his  good  graces. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Tell  me,  now — what  is  this  Grand  Dukes'  business 
you  spoke  of.'* 

RAVIER 

Don't  you  know?  I'll  tell  you:  when  the  Grand 
Dukes  of  Russia  come  to  Paris 

MADAME  SORBIER  {going  to  Claudim) 

Dear  Madame,  many,  many  thanks  for  the  charm- 
ing party  you  have  given  my  children. 

CLAUDINE 

But  you  aren't  leaving  so  soon?  The  children  are 
going  to  have  some  refreshments 


ACT  i]  LOVERS 


MADAME   SORBIER 

No,  no,  dear  Madame,  Georges  and  Gaston  must 
have  nothing — they've  misbehaved.  They  fought 
like  little  urchins,  and  Gaston  was  naughty  to 
Friiulein. 

CLAUDINE 

Very  naughty !  But  let  me  ask  you  to  forgive  them, 
just  this  once!  They  won't  be  naughty  again.  You 
won't — will  you.'*     (^The  children  shake  their  heads) 

MADAME    SORBIER 

Is  that  the  way  to  answer.?  You're  like  the  educated 
donkey — you  have  tongues,  haven't  you?  Can't  you 
say  no.'' 

GEORGES  AND  GASTON   (sulkUy) 

No! 

MADAME   SORBIER 

No — what.f^ 

GEORGES  AND  GASTON 

No,  Madame. 

MADAME  SORBIER 

Now  run  off  and  have  some  refreshments — but  re- 
member, I  let  you  have  them  only  because  Mme. 
Rozay  asked  me — you  may  thank  her.  {Frdulein 
tries  to  induce  the  children,  in  German,  to  thank 
Claudine,  but  in  vain) 
ENGLISH  GOVERNESS  {coTuing  forward  with  Denise) 
Madame,  everything  is  ready — shall  the  children 
come? 

CLAUDINE 

Certainly.  (To  Denise)  You,  dearest,  remember, 
you're  the  hostess  here — you  must  do  the  honors. 
At  the  table  don't  take  the  kind  of  cakes  you  like — 
remember,  all  your  little  friends  must  be  served  first. 


8  LOVERS  [act 


Run  on,  darling.  (She  hisses  Denise  effusively)  I'll 
come  and  see  you  soon. 

\_Dcmse  goes  out  with  her  governess,  who  showers 
advice  upon  her  in  English.  The  children  are  now 
eating.  Mme.  Gregeois  is  tallcing  with  Schlinder  in 
a  corner. 

SCHLINDER 

I  am  listening,  Madame. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Just  think,  M.  le  Prefet,  I  had  to  dismiss  my  maid 
only  a  few  days  ago — she'd  been  in  service  eight 
years — diligent  and  very  good  at  her  work,  only  she 
seemed  too  fond  of  the  second  coachman — even  went 
to  his  room.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing? 
SCHLINDER  (Prefect  of  Police) 
I  have. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

As  I  had  no  intention  of  countenancing  such  goings- 
on  under  my  roof,  I  dismissed  them  both. 

SCHLINDER 

You  had  a  perfect  right  to  do  so. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

That  was  about  a  month  ago,  but  for  the  past  week 
I  have  been  receiving  anonymous  letters  containing 
threats — full  of  vulgar,  vile  expressions — things  I 
shouldn't  think  of  repeating  to  you,  M.  le  Prefet — 
there  are  even  some  I  don't  understand  myself! 

SCHLINDER 

I  can  well  believe  that — and  then.'* 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Well,  I  suspect  that  these  come  from  the  couple  in 
question,  the  couple  I  took  the  liberty  of  disturbing. 
Don't  you  think  I'm  right? 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  9 

SCHLINDER 

Yes  and  no. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Oh,  Monsieur,  if  you  could  only  see  the  letters !  Big, 
scrawling — red  ink — disguised — and  such  expres- 
sions ! 

SCHLINDER 

That  doesn't  constitute  absolute  proof.  I  have  seen 
letters  of  that  sort  which  were  written  by  the  whitest 
and  most  delicate  of  perfumed  hands. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

But,  Monsieur,  I  have  no  other  enemies.  Thank 
God,  I  live  in  a  circle  which  is  not  in  the  least  quar- 
relsome; we  have  no  adventures  or  intrigues. 

SCHLINDER 

That  goes  without  saying.    Well,  in  that  case,  then, 
it  is  very  possible  that  your  suspicion  is  correct — 
what  are  their  names,  you  say? 
[^He  takes  out  a  notebook. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

The  maid's  name  is  Sidonie  Rabut — (Spelling  the 
word)  b-u-t. 

SCHLINDER 

(Writing)    The  man? 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Felix  Tirviellot. 

SCHLINDER 

I  shall  have  Sidonie  Rabut  and  Felix  Tirviellot 
summoned  before  one  of  my  magistrates,  who  has 
charge  of  such  matters.  He  will  frighten  them,  so 
that  they  won't  disturb  you  any  more. 


10  LOVERS  [act  I 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Thank  you  kindly,  Monsieur !  I  hope  you  will  give 
us  the  pleasure  of  calling  at  our  home? 

SCHLINDER 

(Bowing)     Madame! 

J[The  children  continue  to  regale  themselves  with  re- 
freshments. 

MADAME  SORBIER 

Come  quick,  Schlinder ;  the  ladies  are  very  excited ; 
they  want  to  ask  you  a  favor. 

SCHLINDER 

I  am  quite  at  their  service. 

CLAUDINE 

We  should  like  to  see  the  parts  of  the  city  where  the 
murderers  live. 

SCHLINDER 

We  are  not  acquainted  with  those  districts,  Madame. 

RAVIER 

If  you  were,  you  would  not  be  here. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Try  to  think,  M.  le  Prefet.  Just  now  M.  Ravier 
was  telling  us  of  a  number  of  shady  places:  Pere- 
Lunettes,  Chateau-Rouge,  Gravilliers  Ball,  St.  Hu- 
bert's Cellars. 

RAVIER 

The  Grand  Dukes ! 

SCHLINDER 

Nothing  is  easier,  ladies 

CLAUDINE 

Tell  me — I'll  be  rather  nervous — there  won't  be  any 
danger,  will  there? 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  11 


SCHLINDER 

Not  in  the  least,  Madame ;  you  will  be  as  safe  as  you 
are  in  your  own  homes. 

CLAUDINE 

You  are  really  too  obliging ! 

SCHLINDER 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  those  places  are  well-known,  all 
classified — show-places :  why,  the  Pere-Lunettes  shop 
has  been  turned  into  an  Artistic  Cabaret 

EAVIER 

The  poor  man's  Chat-Noir. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

But  we'd  like  to  visit  it. 

SCHLINDER 

Nothing  is  easier.  As  soon  as  you  decide  on  a  day, 
you  have  only  to  let  me  know.  And  now,  Madame, 
you  must  be  good  enough  to  let  me  go  where  duty 
calls. 

CLAUDINE 

You  must  be  very  busy — those  two  recent  murders, 
one  coming  right  after  the  other ! 

SCHLINDER 

Yes,  I  am  due  to  appear  at  a  garden  party  at  the 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs'. 

EAVIER 

I'm  going  there,  too;  may  I  accompany  you? 

SCHLINDER 

Delighted.     (Ravier  and  Sclilinder  go  out) 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

Charming  man ! 

MADAME   JAMINE 

How  interesting!  What  a  lot  of  stories  he  must 
know! 


12  LOVERS  [act  i 


MADAME  GEEGEOIS 

There  are  a  lot  he  doesn't  know,  too ! 

FRAULEIN 

(Coming  down-stage)     Madame! 

MADAME   SORBIER 

What  is  it  now,  Fraulein? 

FRAULEIN 

Madame,  Georges  and  Gaston  have  overeaten.  They 
have  heart-burn — what  shall  I  do? 

MADAME   SORBIER 

I'll  go.  Madame,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  having 
brought  my  children ! 

CLAUDINE 

They're  lovely  children. 

MADAME  SORBIER 

Their  father  spoils  them.  School  begins  soon,  and 
then  I  shan't  be  troubled ;  I  can't  decide  whether  to 
send  them  to  the  Fathers  in  the  Rue  de  Madrid  or 
the  Dominicans  at  Arcueil. 

CLAUDINE 

Sorry  I  can't  advise  you. 

[Madame  Sorbier  starts  to  go,  and  this  gives  the 

signal  for  departure  to  the  other  guests. 

MADAME   SORBIER 

(As  she  goes)  Good-by,  dear  Madame;  once  more, 
I  beg  your  pardon.  Thank  you  for  your  very  kind 
invitation. 

MADAME   GREGEOIS 

(To  Claudine)  I  must  go,  too:  you  must  be  worn 
out. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

(To  Claudine)     Good-by,  dear. 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  13 

CLAUDINE 

Please  stay,  my  dear  Henriette,  we  have  so  many 

things  to  talk  over ! 

\^All  but  Claudine  and  Henriette  Jamine  go  out. 

CLAUDINE 

Now,  how  are  you,  dear?  It's  good  to  see  you  after 
so  long!  I  didn't  even  know  you  were  in  Paris.  I 
wrote  you  just  on  the  chance  of  your  being  here. 

MADAME    JAMINE 

It  was  so  good  of  you !  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
haven't  been  in  Paris  this  winter — we  were  at  Beau- 
lieu:  the  doctors  said  that  Yvonne  had  to  spend  the 
winter  in  the  Midi.     We  returned  in  April. 

CLAUDINE 

Was  your  friend  Mme.  de  Barency  at  Beaulieu  this 
season?     I  think  she  has  a  villa ? 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Yes,  yes,  she  was  there. 

CLAUDINE 

Is  she  as  gay  and  lively  as  ever? 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Oh,  don't  talk  about  it !  The  poor  woman  has  had 
a  great  sorrow — M.  Ledouillard  left  her  to  get  mar- 
ried. 

CLAUDINE 

No?  and  they  were  together  so  long! 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Eight  years. 

CLAUDINE 

Almost  a  long  lease !  * 

*  French  leases  are  usually  made   out   for  terms  of  three,  six, 
and  nine  years. 


14  LOVERS  [act  i 


MADAME    JAMINE 

Yes,  she  is  terribly  broken  up  about  it,  poor  dear! 
She  was  very  fond  of  Ledouillard,  and  then — well, 
she's  unclassed  now,  isn't  she?  Of  course  he  acted 
honorably  and  all  that — he  left  enough  to  take  care 
of  the  child. 

CLAUDINE 

There  is  a  child  then?     Girl  or  boy? 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Boy. 

CLAUDINE 

So  much  the  better — with  a  boy  it's  easier.  Well, 
Ledouillard  is  very  generous — I  expected  him  to  be- 
have decently. 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Yes,  but  granted  that  he  left  them  a  capital  of  five 
hundred  thousand  francs,  that's  not  a  fortune,  es- 
pecially in  these  days. 

CLAUDINE 

No,  you  can't  do  much  with  that ! 

MADAME    JAMINE 

How  is  M.  dc  Ruyseux? 

CLAUDINE 

Very  well,  thank  you. 

MADAME    JAMINE 

I  expected  to  see  him  to-day. 

CLAUDINE 

He  had  to  attend  his  committee  meeting. 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Always  busy  with  politics? 

CLAUDINE 

Always.     And  are  you  happy,  little  Hcnriette? 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  15 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Don't  you  know  what's  happened  to  me? 

CLAUDINE 

No — what  ? 

MADAME    JAMINE 

I've  lost  him. 

CLAUDINE 

PhiKppe  ? 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Yes. 

CLAUDINE 

Lost  him?    Did  he  leave  you?     Married? 

MADAME    JAMINE 

No,  lost,  lost — he  died. 

CLAUDINE 

You  poor  dear! 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Hadn't  you  heard? 

CLAUDINE 

No — I  never  hear  anything.  You  see,  I  live  apart 
from  the  world  here — I  see  people  so  seldom !  When 
you  camo  in  wearing  black,  I  didn't  dare  ask 

MAD^^TE    .AMINE 

1*":n  you  didn't  get  my  letter? 

CLAUDINE 

No,  otherwise  I  should  have 

MADAME  JAMINE 

My  dear,  dear  friend — I  was  simply  crazed,  and  so 
lonely! — I  must  have  forgotten  to  write.  Forgive 
me,  will  you? 

CLAUDINE 

But,  my  dear,  I  don't  blame  you  in  the  least.  Of 
course  you  would  have  written — I  should  have  been 


16  LOVERS  [act  i 

glad — {stoyping  short)  I  mean,  I  should  have  ap- 
preciated hearing  from  you — I  should  have,  that 
is 

MADAME  JAMINE 

His    death   was    so — painful — so There    were 

only  a  few  people  asked  to  the  funeral. 

CIiAUDINE 

Really? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Yes — he  committed  suicide. 

CLAUDINE 

No! 

SERVANT 

(Announcing)    M.  Georges  Vetheuil. 
[Enter  Georges  Vetheuil. 

CLAUDINE 

(Rising)  How  are  you.  Monsieur?  Very  good  of 
you  to  come! 

VETHEUIL 

Not  at  all,  Madame.  (To  Mme.  J  amine)  Madame, 
I  hope  you  are  well? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Thank  you.  Monsieur,  I  am  very  well. 

CLAUDINE 

You  are  acquainted,  then?  I  don't  need  to  intro- 
duce you? 

VETHEUIL 

I  was  afraid  of  being  late,  but  I  see  that  the  play 
has  not  yet  begun. 

CLAUDINE 

If  you  are  referring  to  the  Punch-and-Judy,  it's 
over. 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  17 

VETHEUIL 

Indeed  ? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

{Laughing)  Poor  Georges,  I'm  not  at  all  surprised 
at  you. 

VETHEUII. 

In  that  case  I  am  intruding — I  must  go. 

CLAUDINE 

(Motioning  him  to  a  chair)    Please  don't  go! 

VETHEUIL 

But  you  were  talking.  When  two  women  get  to- 
gether, there  must  be  something  important  under 
discussion 

MADAME  JAMINE 

It's  no  mystery;  I  was  just  telling  Mmc.  Rozay  how 
Philippe 

VETHEUIIi 

Yes — poor  fellow! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Well,  to  conclude:  as  I  was  returning  to  Paris,  it 
happened.  As  I  was  saying,  we  had  passed  the  win- 
ter at  Beaulieu.  Philippe  was  at  Monte  Carlo  then, 
the  whole  time;  I  couldn't  persuade  him  to  keep 
away.  He  gambled;  and  lost,  of  course;  lost  heav- 
ily. When  he  came  back,  he  tried  to  pay  his  debts 
out  of  the  receipts  of  a  gold  mine  in  which  he  was 
interested — he  invested  his  last  sou  in  it.  He  acted 
on  bad  advice,  and  one  morning  he  woke  up  to  find 
himself  quite  ruined.  He  then  shot  himself — twice — 
in  the  head. 


18  LOVERS  [act  i 

CLAUDINE 

Terrible !  I  pity  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
[Madame  Jamine  discreetly  wipes  her  eyes  with  her 
handkerchief. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

You  can  imagine  how  terribly  I  felt — especially  as 
toward  the  last  he  gambled  with  my  money — that 
was  one  of  the  principal  reasons  why  he  killed  him- 
self.    And  now,  I — I  haven't  a  sou. 

CLAUDINE 

Was  he  the  father  of  your  little  daughter? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

No,  Yvonne's  father  was 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  I  forgot — I  beg  your  pardon.  Then  what  hap- 
pened ? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

I  was  simply  overcome ;  I  wept  my  eyes  out  for  him 
— I  adored  him.  For  two  months  I  couldn't  bear 
the  sight  of  a  human  being;  then,  little  by  little,  I 
braced  up — now,  now  I'm  living  with  Prunier. 

CLAUDINE 

The  cement  manufacturer.'' 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Yes. 

CLAUDINE 

There  are  two :  Ernest  and  Jules. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Mine  is  Ernest 

CLAUDINE 

Who  just  lost  his  wife. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Yes. 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  19 

CLAUDINE 

But  I  understood  that  he  was  heart-broken? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Yes,  it  was  painful  to  see  him — I  met  him  first  at  the 
cemetery. 

CLAUDINE 

At  the  cemetery ! 

VETHEUIL 

Tell  us  about  it. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

It's  very  simple.  I  used  to  go  every  week  to  put 
flowers  on  Philippe's  grave,  and  one  day  I  saw  Pru- 
nier,  who  was  bringing  flowers  for  his  wife's  grave. — 
You  see,  the  Pruniers'  family  vault  is  near  Philippe's. 
I  came  back  the  next  day  and 

VETHEUIL 

You  said  just  now  you  used  to  go  every  week? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

(Ignoring  the  question)  Yes,  but  the  guardian  told 
me  Prunier  came  every  day.  So  I  came  back  the 
day  after,  and  little  by  little  we  got  to  talking;  he 
told  me  I  was  like  his  wife — that  was  our  point  of 
departure.     Then  he  saw  I  understood  him — I  used 

to  console  him — that's  how 

[Claudine  turns  away  to  keep  from  laughing. 

VETHEUIL 

Nice! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Why  are  3^ou  laughing?     Is  what  I  say  amusing? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  very ! 


20  LOVERS  [act  i 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Well,  you  see,  I  must  look  after  things :  I  have  a 
daughter  to  educate,  and  she  must  have  a  dowry,  for 
I  want  her  to  be  able  to  choose  her  own  husband — a 
fine,  worthy  man. 

CLAUDINE 

And  she's  right! 

VETHEUII. 

You  have  plenty  of  time  to  decide. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

One  can  never  be  too  early  in  those  matters !  I  may 
die.  I  don't  want  her  to  risk  marrying  a  nobody, 
who  will  make  her  life  miserable.  I'll  keep  watch 
over  Yvonne,  and  if  my  son-in-law  deceives  her,  I'll 
• — I'll  shoot  him — I  will!     (She  rises) 

VETHEUIL 

{Also  rising)  Well,  well!  And  what  if  she  should 
deceive  him.'* 

MADAME  JAMINE 

That's  different — I'll  help  her.  Well,  I  must  be  go- 
ing.    Good-by,  Mr.  Mocker! 

VETHEUIL 

I  wasn't  mocking! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Where  is  my  little  girl? 

CLAUDINE 

(Escorting  Mme.  J  amine  toward  the  right)  This 
way,  please.  She  must  be  playing  with  Denise. 
You'll  find  her  in  there.  {They  go  out.  Vctheuil, 
left  alone,  examines  a  large  portrait  of  Claudine, 
which  is  on  an  easel.  A  moment  later,  Claudine  re- 
enters) 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  21 

CLAUDINE 

You  knew  Henriette  Jamine  before,  then? 

VETHEUIL, 

Yes,  I've  met  her  a  number  of  times. 

CLAUDINE 

She's  nice,  and  so  pretty!  I  don't  know  a  prettier 
woman.  I'm  sorry  I  don't  see  more  of  her — she's 
so  amusing,  too!    Don't  you  think  so.'^ 

VETHEUIL 

Oh,  yes — she  said  some  very  apt  things  just  now. 

CLAUDINE 

She  has  the  knack  of  being  able  to  say  everything 
she  thinks ;  she's  occasionally  ridiculous,  but  always 
charming. 

VETHEUIL 

She  throws  a  veil  of  charm  over  the  most  vulgar 
things. 

CLAUDINE 

Precisely. 

VETHEUIL 

(Pointing  to  tlie  portrait)     Is  this  you? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes —  in  the  Age  of  Reason.  (Vetheuil  rises  and 
looks  at  the  picture) 

VETHEUIL 

Very  good.     Who  did  it? 

CLAUDINE 

Sargent. 

VETHEUIL 

Remarkable.  Decidedly  pretty,  that  Age  of  Reason; 
what  a  delightful  souvenir  it  will  be!  W^hat  a  pity 
you  left  the  stage  so  soon !  In  the  very  flush  of 
youth,  at  the  height  of  success!    Why  did  you? 


22  LOVERS  [act  i 

CLAUDINE 

Because  at  the  time  I  came  to  know  the  Count  de 
Ruyseux,  who  did  not  Hke  to  have  me  in  those  sur- 
roundings— then  I  had  a  daughter.  From  that  time 
on,  I  had  another  part  to  play,  the  most  wonderful 
part  that  was  ever  written,  one  I  never  get  tired  of 
at  the  hundredth  or  even  the  thousandth  perform- 
ance— it  changes  from  day  to  day,  yet  it  always  re- 
mains the  same. 

VETHEUIL 

Then  you  leave  no  regrets  in  the  theater.'' 

CLAUDINE 

Not  a  single  one. 

VETHEUIL 

But  the  adulation  of  the  crowd,  that  dazzlingly  bril- 
liant celebrity  to  which  our  very  best  authors  con- 
tinually refer — what  of  that? 

CLAUDINE 

Oh,  there  were  moments !     But  if  you  knew  the 

price  we  have  to  pay  for  them !  It's  not  a  happy 
profession.  When  I  consider  that  I,  the  most  head- 
strong, distant,  hard-to-get-along-with,  lazy,  pleas- 
ure-loving of  mortals  rose  early  every  morning,  ate 
a  snatch  of  breakfast  and  ran  in  order  to  be  on  time 
for  rehearsals ;  that  I  passed  whole  afternoons  wait- 
ing about;  that  I  went  over  scenes  twenty  times  ac- 
cording to  the  caprice  of  manager  or  author — when 
I  consider  all  that,  I  am  astonished  at  myself,  and 
wonder  how  I  could  possibly  have  endured  it  all ! 

VETHEUIL 

Which  is  tantamount  to  saying  that  if  a  lover  had 
been  one-fourth  as  exacting,  you  would  have  sent 
him  about  his  business. 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  23 

CLAUDINE 

I  should  think  so! 

VJETHEUIL 

Of  course. 

CLAUDINE 

It  is  an  awful  life — then  the  pettiness  in  the  profes- 
sion !    You  have  no  idea  what  it's  like ! 

VETHEUIL 

Oh,  but  I  have.  It's  like  all  of  life,  for  that  matter. 
The  other  day  I  was  at  the  home  of  a  good  middle- 
class  family,  on  their  estate  near  Mantes.  Their 
hallway  was  hung  with  colored  supplements  from  the 
Courrier  Fran^ais!  So  nowadays  Forain  has  taken 
the  place  of  cheap  red  cloth.  Do  you  see  the  sym- 
bolism.'^ 

CLAUDINE 

Yes. — No,  I  have  no  regrets  for  the  theater.  In  fact, 
I  have  become  very  bourgeoise — I'm  afraid  of  so- 
ciety, and  I  rarely  see  people. 

VETHEUIL 

How  well  we  understand  each  other !  We  have  quite 
the  same  distastes !  About  this  time  every  year  I 
detest  the  sight  of  Paris ;  I'm  disgusted  with  the  de- 
bauchery— the  young  ladies,  the  dear  married 
women,  the  flirts  and  coquettes — I  simply  must  run 
away! 

CLAUDINE 

I  know  exactly  how  you  feel. 

VETHEUIL 

Then  I  hide  myself  in  some  quiet  nook  in  the  coun- 
try: I  fish,  hunt,  read  good  books,  and  think.  In 
short,  I  live,  live — here  I  do  nothing  at  all. 


24  LOVERS  [act  i 

CLAUDINE 

And  you  are  right.     I  too  love  the  country — ^You're 
leaving  soon? 

VETHEUIL 

At  the  end  of  the  month. 

CLAUDIXE 

Alone.? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes. 

CLAUDINE 

( Incredulously)    Hm ! 

VETHEUIL 

Quite — indeed — as  sure  as 

CLAUDINE 

One  and  one  make  two ! 

VETHEUIL 

Absolutely  alone — why  should  you  doubt  me.? 

CLAUDINE 

Well,  your  reputation !     If  those  ladies  to  whom 

you  just  referred  make  you  sick,  the  sickness  must 

have  agreeable  compensating  qualities You  are 

seen  about  with  them  a  good  deal. 

VETHEUIL 

What  does  that  prove?    I  act  the  part  of  a  man  who 
is  being  amused,  but  my  heart  is  empty. 

CLAUDINE 

If  you're  tired  of  that  life,  why  don't  you  marry? 

VETHEUIL 

Oh !    Couldn't  think  of  it !    My  heart  w  empty, 

but  it  is  not  yet  worn  out! 

CLAUDINE 

The  woman  you'll  marry  some  day  would  be  pleased 
to  hear  that — Will  you  have  something  to  drink? 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  25 

VETHEUIL 

Thanks,  I  will. 

CLAUDINE 

(Ringing  for  a  servant)     What  would  you  like? 

VETHEUIL 

Whatever  you  suggest. 

CLAUDINE 

Brandy  and  soda.'' 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  brandy  and  soda. 
{Enter  Prosper.) 

CLAUDINE 

Prosper,  some  brandy  and  soda. 

PROSPER 

Very  well,  Madame. 

CLAUDINE 

Has  the  governess  gone  out  with  baby? 

PROSPER 

Not  yet,  Madame. 

CLAUDINE 

Tell  her  that  I  want  baby  to  come  and  kiss  me  be- 
fore she  leaves. 

PROSPER 

Very  well,  Madame.     (He  goes  out.) 

CLAUDINE 

Too  bad  you  don't  want  to  marry! 

VETHEUIL 

Why  so? 

CLAUDINE 

Because  I  know  of  a  charming  young  lady  with  a 
large  dowry. 

VETHEUIL 

Give  her  to  a  poor  man. 


26  LOVERS  [act  i 

CLAUDINE 

Perhaps  you  know  her?     Mile.  Valreal. 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  I  know  her — nothing  extraordinary. 

CLAUDINE 

It's  strange  how  indulgent  men  are  toward  the 
women  who  ruin  them,  and  how  severe  on  tliose  who 
bring  them  money. 

VETHEUIL 

We  must  preserve  our  independence,  you  see. 

CLAUDINE 

Then  you  really  don't  want  to  marry?  (To  the  ser- 
vant, who  hrmgs  brandy  and  soda)  Put  it  there. 
{To  Vetheuil)  And  you  are  sick  of  the  "ladies." 
It's  serious.  You  must  now  fall  in  love  and  have  a 
great  affair  with  some  wonderful  woman. 

VETHEUIL 

I  lack  the  necessary  means. 

CLAUDINE 

That's  not  nice.  They're  not  all  like  that.  I  must 
cling  to  my  illusion  that  there  are  some  women  in 
the  world  who  still  cherish  love  for  its  own  sake. 

VETHEUIL 

For  less  than  that  even ! 

CLAUDINE 

Try  a  pretty  middle-class  woman,  a  married  woman. 

VETHEUIL 

Dangerous  nowadays :  they  make  you  promise  to 
marry  them.  Furthermore,  a  married  woman  is  no 
longer  romantic.  I  remember  when  I  was  eighteen, 
if  one  of  my  comrades  was  said  to  have  an  affair 
with  a  married  woman,  ho  at  once  assumed  the  pro- 
portions of  a  hero,  but  to-day  a  high-school  student 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  27 

would  not  think  of  such  a  thing — it  would  be  so 
banal ! 

CLAUDINE 

Now  you're  exaggerating.  I  firmly  believe  that  love 
exists  to-day.  It's  funny  I  should  have  to  defend 
those  women :  there  must  be  some  among  them  who 
are  not  so  black  as  you  imagine. 

VETHEUIL 

Very  few. 

CLAUDINE 

More  than  you  think.  But  you  don't  seem  to  know 
just  what  you  want. 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  I  must  have  someone  like 

CLAUDINE 

Like.? 

VETHEUIL 

Nothing.      {He    rises)      Madame,    will    you    allow 


me .'' 

CLAUDINE 

Going  so  soon.'^ 

VETHEUIL 

It's  very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure.  I've  stayed  rather 
long  for  a  first  visit — I'm  afraid  I  have  trespassed 
on  your  good-will. 

CLAUDINE 

Not  in  the  least.     Stay  only  a  few  minutes  longer — 

VETHEUIL 

Truly  I'm  not  intruding.'*    You  have  nothing  to  do? 

CLAUDINE 

I  find  you  very  interesting.  You  may  go  a  little 
later,  unless 


28  LOVERS  [act  i 

VETHEUIL 

I  am  delighted  to  stay  here  with  you.  {He  sits 
down  again) 

CLAUDINE 

(Sitting)    Are  you  bored  then? 

VETHEUIIi 

No,  never — I  have  too  many  troubles! 

CLAUDINE 

What?     You're  happy,  aren't  you? 

VETHEUIL 

It's  my  own  fault,  I  imagine.  How  is  it  possible 
for  us,  living  in  this  age  of  self-analysis,  to  be  en- 
tirely happy,  or  entirely  unhappy?  Happiness  is 
a  very  simple  matter,  after  all,  too  simple  for  us 
— unhapplncss  too. 

CLAUDINE 

How  true  that  is !  Just  the  same,  you  give  me  the 
impression  of  a  very  puzzling  sort  of  person. 

VETHEUIL 

I  do  my  best — only  human  beings  are  complicated 
mechanisms.  You,  too,  are — so  is  life,  so  is  every- 
thing— infinitely  complicated.  Did  you  ever  find 
yourself  in  the  middle  of  a  forest,  in  one  of  those 
clearings  where  half  a  dozen  paths  cross,  and  not 
know  which  led  to  the  chateau,  which  to  the  village, 
the  farm,  and  the  railway  station? 

CLAUDINE 

We  call  that  St.  Hubert's  Square  or  the  Place  of 
the  Guards. 

VETHEUIL 

Exactly ;  well,  at  every  step  In  life  we  are  confronted 
with  these  squares,  and  we  have  no  idea  whither  we 
are  going. 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  29 

CLAUDINE 

Especially  when  we  don't  know  where  we  want  to  go. 

VETHEUIL 

That  is  also  true. 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  and  it  all  goes  to  prove  that  we  should  remain 
quiet  and  calm  and  composed — then  we  don't  have  to 
choose  a  path. 

VETHEUIL 

But  that  is  not  living. 

CLAUDINE 

No,  it  isn't. 

VETHEUIL 

Do  you  find  life  amusing? 

CLAUDINE 

Amusing.''  No.  Only  I  have  a  companion  of  whom 
I  am  sure,  who  is  devoted,  and  for  whom  I  have  a 
great  deal  of  affection.  I  have  a  daughter  whom 
I  adore,  and  I  live  in  tolerable  luxury.  I  have  lit- 
tle to  complain  of,  and  I  am  rarely  bored.  That  is 
all  I  can  say. 

VETHEUIL 

You're  not  saying  that  for  my  benefit.'* 

CLAUDINE 

For  whose,  then.'* 

VETHEUIL 

You  say  that  in  order  to  persuade  yourself. 

CLAUDINE 

You  mustn't  put  such  ideas  into  my  head — it's  im- 
pertinent ! 

VETHEUIL 

Psychology ! 


30  LOVERS  [act  i 

CLAUDINE 

{Laughing)     Downriglit   violence! 

VETHEUIL 

Now  at  this  moment  I  enjoy  that  calm  and  quiet  of 
which  you  spoke,  but  I  feel  the  need  for  something 
further:  emotion,  trouble,  joy,  and  even  suffering — 
yes,  suffering! 

CLAUDINE 

I  know  what  you  mean.  When  we  are  without  those 
emotions,  that  suffering,  we  ask  ourselves  what  we 
are  doing  anyhow.  We  seem  to  be  losing,  wasting 
our  time — and  that  quiet  existence  is  more  painful 
than  sadness  itself.  We  think  of  our  past  sufferings 
in  order  to  suffer  in  the  present ! 

VETHEUIL 

Exactly. 

CLAUDINE 

So,  tlien,  you  seem  to  be  ready  for  a  great  love  af- 
fair ? 

VETHEUIL 

You  too! 

CLAUDINE 

Sh!    {Pointing  to  Denise,  who  is  about  to  enter  with 
the  English  governess)     There  is  my  grande  pas- 
sion! 
[Enter  Denise  and  her  governess. 

DENISE 

Good-by,  mother  dear.    I'm  going  for  a  walk. 

CLAUDINE 

Good-by,  sweetheart,  have  a  nice  time!  {To  the 
governess)  Take  her  to  the  Pre  Catelan — and  don't 
stay  too  long — not  hiter  than  seven. 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  31 

DENISE 

Are  we  coming  back  by  way  of  the  Acacias? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  my  angel,  you  are  coming  back  by  way  of  the 
Acacias. 

DENISE 

Then  I  can't  be  home  by  seven. 

CLAUDINE 

Why? 

GOVERNESS 

She  told  me  the  other  day  that  the  stylish  ladies 
don't  go  there  until  seven. 

CLAUDINE 

Then  you  may  stay  till  half-past.  Are  you  glad 
now?  Come  and  say  good-by  to  this  gentleman. 
There  he  is.  (Denise  goes  to  Vetheuil,  who  offers 
to  kiss  her,  but  the  child  gravely  holds  out  her  hand) 

VETHEUIL 

{Very  ceremoniously)    Good-by,  Mademoiselle. 

DENISE 

Good-by,  Monsieur. 

[Denise  and  the  governess  go  out. 

CLAUDINE 

The  child  has  a  character  all  her  own.  {A  short 
pause)  No — what  you  were  saying  just  now — real 
happiness  consists  in  sacrificing  one's  life  to  chil- 
dren! 

VETHEUIL 

Then  where  do  I  come  in? 

CLAUDINE 

Don't  you  like  children? 

VETHEUIL 

I  adore  them,  but  I  have  none. 


32  LOVERS  [act  i 


CLAUDINE 

Well? 

VETHEUIL 

There  must  be  two  of  us. 

CLAUDINE 

She  is  not  hard  to  find! 

VETHEUII, 

She  is  when  you  look  for  her — then  there's  a  long 
and  arduous  time  to  wait! 

CLAUDINE 

Well — what  shall  we  say,  then? 

VETHEUIL, 

Isn't  it  rather  hard  on  a  man  whose  heart  is  in  the 
right  place  to  put  a  woman  Avhom  he  is  supposed 
to  love  in  that  ridiculous  and  dangerous  position — 
for  the  result  is  never  sure ! 

CLAUDINE 

Luckily  everyone  doesn't  think  as  you  do. 

VETHEUIL 

Then  there  is  the  great  responsibility :  deformed  chil- 
dren, for  instance 

CLAUDINE 

You're  considering  extreme  cases. 

VETHEUIL 

Or  imbeciles,  which  are  worse!  Deformity  is  pos- 
sible, but — no,  I  prefer  adoption — a  healthy  child 
well  brought  up — like  your  daughter,  now ! 

CLAUDINE 

It  isn't  that  you're  afraid — you're  simply  like  a  man 
who  buys  an  establishment  fully  furnished:  you're 
looking  for  a  bargain. 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  33 

VETHEUII. 

That  is  merely  taking  advantage  of  the  folly  of 
others. 

CLAUDINE 

Hardly  a  nice  thing  to  say  about  Denise's  father! 

VETHEUIL 

I  don't  know  him.    (Rising)    I  really  must  go  now. 

CLAUDINE 

No! 

VETHEUIL 

I'm  afraid  of  boring  you. 

CLAUDINE 

You  needn't  be.  I  assure  you  I  have  nothing  to  do 
— I  mean  it — otherwise  I  should  say  so. 

VETHEUIL 

Then  I'll  stay.  This  is  pleasant,  talking  with  you! 
You  are  very  pretty,  gracious — and  you  seem  very 
good ! 

CLAUDINE 

I  don't  think  I'm  bad! 

VETHEUIL 

But  I  sliall  have  to  go  before  long.  It  will  seem 
like  the  darkest  night  when  I  leave. 

CLAUDINE 

Now,  now ! 

VETHEUIL 

I  have  passed  a  charming  hour  here  with  you — 
charming — I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to  pro- 
long the  visit. 

CLAUDINE 

You  may  do  that  in  your  memory — and  you  may 
come  again — I  should  like  to  see  you  occasionally. 


34-  LOVERS  [act  i 

VETHEUIL 

The  atmosphere  which  you  seem  to  create  about 
yourself  has  already  enwrapped  me ;  I  fear  if  I  came 
again  it  would  penetrate,  possess  me — through  and 
through 


CLAUDINE 

I  hardly  think  so. 

VETHEUIL 

What  do  yon  think? 

CLAUDINE 

I  think  that  you  like  to  make  yourself  agreeable 
to  me,  and  that  you  are  doing  all  in  your  power  to 
that  end — it's  bred  deep  in  your  character — if  you 
were  in  the  presence  of  another  woman,  I  think  you 
would  be  absolutely  the  same.  You  see,  I'm  not 
playing  the  coquette  with  you — you  are  more  femi- 
nine than  I. 

VETHEUIL 

You  beUeve  me  incapable  of  a  true  and  deep  senti- 
ment, because  I  always  seem  to  be  making  game  of 
myself.     But  that  is   no  reason. 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  I  know — I  can  believe  that  with  all  your  ap- 
parent skepticism  you  can  be  very  tender  and  sen- 
timental.    You  are,  aren't  you.-^ 

VETHEUIL 

Like — the  stars. 

CLAUDINE 

Yet  with  all  your  skepticism,  you  can  be  jealous? 

VETHEUIL 

I  am  instinctively  jealous,  but  I  restore  the  balance 
with  the  aid  of  my  reason.     I  can  be  very  jealous 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  35 

for  no  reason  at  all,  and  know  It  all  the  time;  but 
in  that  case  I  never  show  my  jealousy. 

CLAUDINE 

And  when  you  have  reasons? 

VETHEUIL 

Then  I  am  impossible:  I  hate  the  human  race.  If  I 
happen  to  be  at  a  social  function,  the  hostess  usually 
drops  some  remark  about  "not  bringing  yopr  friend 
again    ! 

CLAUDINE 

(Laughing)  Just  like  me:  ridiculous,  jealous,  sen- 
timental! You've  said  so  many  things  that  I  have 
thought  out  myself,  but  never  put  into  words! 
Strange  how  much  we  are  alike ! 

VETHEUIL. 

Birds  of  a  feather,  you  know. 

CLAUDINE 

Yes — er — no  I  No! — Never!  (Short  pause)  Are 
you  constant? 

VETHEUIL 

Constant?     That  depends. 

CLAUDINE 

Oh! 

VETHEUIL 

(Laughing)  I  don't  think  we  should  be  forever 
boring  each  other, 

CLAUDINE 

I'm  sure  we  shouldn't. 

VETHEUIL 

Now  with  you  I'd  be  constant,  because  you  have 
every  desirable  quality  to  make  a  man  absurdly  so. 

CLAUDINE 

Absurdly,  but  not  eternally. 


36  LOVERS  [act  i 

VETHEUIL 

You  haven't  enough  illusions. 

CLAUDINE 

And  for  that  reason,  if  I  were  in  love  I  should  be 
very  much  to  blame,  knowing  the  dangers  I  was  ex- 
posed to ! 

VETHEUIL 

Not  to  blame,  but  merely  prepared,  which  is  more 
amusing. 

CLAUDINE 

And  more  serious!  But  let's  drop  the  subject — it's 
out  of  the  question:  I'm  a  good  little  stay-at-home 
bourgeoise. 

VETHEUIL 

Nonsense !  You  are  a  woman  capable  of  love — you 
will  love  again.  I'm  not  fool  enough  to  say  I  am 
the  man,  but — you  will  love. 

CLAUDINE 

Heaven  preserve  me!  I  have  no  wish  to  go  through 
what  I  have  already  endured!  What  deceit,  what 
tears,  what  sleepless  nights,  what  aching  for  ven- 
geance !  How  mean  and  silly  it  all  is !  Yes,  sill3\ 
And  now  you  say  it  must  be  gone  through  again.'' 
And  then  the  final  breaking-ofF:  the  death,  and  the 
agony  after  death?  That  breaking-off!  Can  you 
calmly  contemplate  that? 

VETHEUIL 

I  don't  contemplate  it,  I  try  to  avoid  thinking  of  it, 
because  in  love  "The  only  victory  is  flight."  That 
is  why  my  valise  is  always  in  readiness — that  wonder- 
ful little  leather  valise  of  mine — with  half  a  dozen 
shirts  in  it,  two  suits — one  of  them  dinner  dress — 
flasks   of  Eau  de   Cologne   and   tooth   powder — all 


h 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  37 

ready  for  flight,  in  the  manner  of  soldiers  preparing 
a  pontoon  bridge,  with  their  baggage  on  the  boards. 
After  fifteen  minutes'  riding,  one  can  be  at  the  fron- 
tier. I  have  noticed  that  invariably  those  moments 
passed  in  packing  the  valise  are  the  worst;  it's  just 
then  that  friends  interfere,  she  returns  and  cries — 
and  you're  lost ! 

CLAUDINE 

And  have  you  had  occasion  to  use  that  valise.'' 
[Enter  the  Count  de  Ruyseux. 

COUNT 

{Kissing  Claudine^s  hand)    Dearest! 

CLAUDINE 

{Introducing)    M.  Georges  Vetheuil;  Count  de  Ruy- 

seux. 

[The  men  how,  then  the  Count  extends  his  hand  to 

Georges. 

COUNT 

(To  Claudine)     Have  a  pleasant  party? 

CLAUDINE 

Delightful ;  the  children  had  a  good  time,  and  so  did 
their  mammas. 

COUNT 

Splendid ! 

CLAUDINE 

Ravier  worked  the  Punch-and-Judy  show — he  was  so 
funny ! 

VETHEUIL 

Oh,  it  was  Ravier ? 


CLAUDINE 

Do  you  know  him? 


38  LOVERS  [act  i 

VETHEUIL 

A  young  man  who  recites  monologues  and  acts  in  pri- 
vate salons.     Who  doesn't  know  Ravier? 

CLAUDINE 

He's  so  amusing !    He  can  imitate  any  actor. 

VETHEUIL 

He  knows  how  to  be  agreeable  in  company — odious 
animal ! 

CLAUDINE 

You're  not  kind ! 

COUNT 

And  how  about  Denise? 

CLAUDINE 

Denise  acted  the  part  of  hostess  with  honor ;  she  was 
quite  the  little  mistress  of  the  house,  quick,  and  con- 
scious of  her  own  importance.  What  an  amusing 
little  woman  she  was !  Do  you  want  to  hear  your 
daughter's  latest.'*. 

COUNT 

Do  I.? 

CLAUDINE 

As  soon  as  she  was  dressed,  after  lunch,  she  came  to 
show  herself  to  me,  and  as  I  was  admiring  her,  I  said : 
"My,  my,  what  a  pwetty  dwess  and  what  lovely 
hair!"  She  said:  "Now,  mother,  talk  like  grown-up 
people:  say  'pretty'  and  'dress';  that  other  way  isn't 
funny,  it's  childish !" 

COUNT 

Remarkable ! 

CLAUDINE 

{Turning  to  Vetheuil)     She's  only  eight! 

VETHEUIL 

Positively  terrifying! 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  39 

COUNT 

Well,  I  spent  a  part  of  the  afternoon  with  my  old 
friend,  the  Marquis  de  Nezelles ;  he's  going  this  even- 
ing to  the  dress  rehearsal  of  Tannliauser  at  the 
Opera. 

CliAUDINE 

Lucky!  I  should  like  to  have  gone — I  never  see 
anything  nowadays ! 

COUNT 

To-morrow  you'll  read  a  letter  we  composed  together 
for  the  Figaro. 

CLAUDINE 

What  about? 

COUNT 

That  incident  at  the  Savoy. 

CLAUDINE 

What  incident? 

COUNT 

You  know :  there  were  too  many  guests,  so  that  there 
had  to  be  two  tables.  Monseigneur  presided  over 
one,  and  the  Duke  de  Luynes  over  the  other.  It 
seems  that  the  people  at  the  Duke's  table  didn't  have 
the  same  menu  as  those  at  the  Orleans  table.  Cer- 
tain papers  commented  on  the  fact,  and  made  a 
number  of  misstatements,  which  we  have  rectified  in 
our  letter — you  know,  Monsieur,  I  am  an  old  Royal- 
ist— does  that  shock  you? 

VETHEUIL 

Not  in  the  least,  Monsieur — I  don't  dabble  in  poli- 
tics :  I  am  more  Anarchist  than  anything  else. 

COUNT 

In  that  event  we  can  understand  each  other. 


40  LOVERS  [act  i 

VKTHEUIL 

Temporarily,  at  least!  {He  rises)  Madame,  I  really 
must  ask  your  permission  to  go.  (He  shakes  hands 
with  the  Count)     Monsieur 

COUNT 

Very  glad  to  have  met  you.  Monsieur.  I  hope  to  see 
you  again.   {Claudine  conducts  Vetheuil  to  the  door) 

COUNT 

Seems  like  a  nice  fellow — very  pleasant.  Where  did 
you  meet  him.'' 

CLAUDINE 

In  Pauline  Gluck's  booth,  at  the  Sale  for  the  Benefit 
of  Artists'  Orphans.  She  introduced  us;  I  thought 
him  agreeable,  not  at  all  stupid,  quite  Intelligent. 
Then  I've  seen  him  from  time  to  time  in  the  Bois, 
and  at  tlie  theater.  He  kept  saying  he  was  going  to 
call,  but  not  till  to-day  did  he  carry  out  his  threat. 

COUNT 

You  never  said  anything  about  him  before. 

CLAUDINE 

W^hy  should  I? 

COUNT 

What  sort  of  man  is  he? 

CLAUDINE 

I  hardly  know — I  haven't  had  many  opportuni- 
ties  

COUNT 

What  does  he  do? 

CLAUmNE 

Nothing. 

COUNT 

Has  he  independent  means?    A  fortune? 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  41 

CLAUDINE 

I  scarcely  think  it  could  be  called  a  fortune ;  he  has 
enough  to  support  himself  comfortably. 

COUNT 

That  is  the  main  point. — You  think  him  nice? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  quite — he  has  a  good  disposition,  too.  I  im- 
agine he  would  be  incapable  of  doing  anything  mean. 

COUNT 

That's  the  finest  thing  that  can  be  said  of  anyone 
nowadays.     What's  his  name?     I  didn't  catch  it? 

CliAUDINE 

Vetheuil — Georges  Vetheuil. 

COUNT 

Wait  a  moment,  I  think  I  know  that  name.  This 
Vetheuil  was  once  in  prison. 

CLAUDINE 

{Indignantly)  Never!  That's  impossible!  My 
dear,  you  must  be  mad ! 

COUNT 

Don't  get  excited.  In  1880,  at  the  time  of  the  fa- 
mous Ferry  Decrees,  a  certain  Vetheuil — 18  or  19 
years  old,  who  insulted  the  gendarmes  as  they  were 
driving  out  the  Dominicans  of  the  Rue — Rue — never 
mind — was  taken  to  the  Station. 

CLAUDINE 

{Reassured)     Oh,  I  don't  deny,  of  course ! 

COUNT 

That  was  in  1880.  We  are  now  in  1895:  eighteen 
and  fifteen,  that's  thirty-three.  It  might  very  well 
be — I'll  ask  him. 

ClyAUDINE 

If  it's  he,  you're  going  to  fall  on  his  neck. 


42  LOVERS  [act  i 


COUNT 

I  don't  say  that,  but  he  would  run  a  better  risk  of 
pleasing  me.     (Short  pause) 

CLAUDINE 

Any  news  ? 

COUNT 

Notliing  much. 

CLAUDINE 

Tell  me  what  there  is.    No  gossip?     See  anyone? 

COUNT 

Yes — met  Langny. 

CLAUDINE 

What  did  he  have  to  say  ? 

COUNT 

Nothing ;  since  he's  stopped  making  love  to  my  wife, 
he  cuts  me  dead. 

CLAUDINE 

Really? 

COUNT 

Rather,  since  he  has  dropped  out  of  the  number  of 
those  who  make  love  to  my  wife ! 

CLAUDINE 

Please,  Alfred,  you  know  how  I  detest  hearing  you 
say  such  things! 

COUNT 

Why  so?    I'm  not  at  all  bitter. 

CLAUDINE 

Of  course ;  you're  a  philosopher. 

COUNT 

I'm  not  a  philosopher;  only,  as  everyone  in  Paris 
knows  of  my  wife's  conduct,  my  assumed  ignorance 
of  the  fact  would  be  childish,  and  might  even  give 
rise   to  grave   suspicions;  to  brag  of  it  would  be 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  43 

odious  in  the  extreme,  but  to  mention  it  before  cer- 
tain picked  individuals,  like  you,  and  in  a  light  and 
graceful  manner,  that's  the  only  decent  way  for  a 
man  who  is  well  acquainted  with  the  exigencies  of  life. 
I  think  there's  a  splendid  place  to  fill  between 
Georges  Dandin  and  Othello ! 

CLAUDINE 

You're  a  dilettante. 

COUNT 

If  you  like.  But  I  have  no  illusions:  there  are  cer- 
tain people  who  were  born  to  be  deceived  throughout 
life:  I'm  one  of  those. 

CLAUDINE 

You're  proud  of  it. 

COUNT 

Not  in  the  least.  And  don't  tell  me  that  you  must 
be  very  handsome  in  order  to  have  a  woman  remain 
faithful  to  you.  I  was  good-looking  when  I  was 
young — I  can  say  it  without  boasting,  because  I  am 
no  longer  so,  but  I  really  was  a  handsome  young 
fellow. 

CLAUDINE 

So  that  even  the  little  chimney  sweeps  turned  round 
when  you  passed  by  on  the  street.'' 

COUNT 

No — I  shouldn't  have  cared  for  that.  But  really,  I 
was  what  is  called  a  handsome  man — and  I  was  de- 
ceived. Nor  does  it  help  a  man  to  be  a  hero.  When 
the  war  broke  out,  I  had  a  charming  girl — I  left 
her  to  serve  my  country.  I  received  a  bullet  in  the 
arm,  a  saber  cut  in  the  leg,  and  military  honors.  But 
while  I  was  lying  in  the  hospital,  she  deceived  me. 
Then  I  married:  I  had  a  noble  name,  I  was  rich,  I 


44»  LOVERS  [act  i 

was  one  of  the  leaders  of  my  party.  I  was  again 
deceived.  I  am  not  considered  an  exception:  that's 
my  consolation. 

CLAUDINE 

No,  but  you  are  an  exception  because  of  the  way  in 
which  you  resign  yourself 

COUNT 

I  do  what  seems  reasonable:  infidelity,  or  let  us  say 
change,  has  become  a  natural  law ;  and  it  is  a  re- 
grettable fact  that  our  national  genius  has  always 
treated  the  logical  working-out  of  that  law  with  a 
ridicule  which  is  sometimes  turned  into  tragedy. 

CLAUDINE 

That  is  so,  but  what  else  can  one  do.? 

COUNT 

Keep  well  in  mind  that  the  law  of  change  should  of 
all  laws  be  the  most  inevitable — so  that  we  might 
resign  ourselves  to  it;  from  early  youth  we  should 
be  forced  to  meditate  upon  inconstancy,  just  as  girls 
at  the  convent  are  forced  to  meditate  upon  death. 

CLAUDINE 

Rather  difficult !  It's  not  in  the  French  tempera- 
ment. 

COUNT 

I'm  sorry! 

CLAUDINE 

Let's  not  talk  about  it,  though.  The  subject  is  not 
a  very  pleasant  one  to  me. 

COUNT 

Nothing  personal,  you  understand? 

CLAUDINE 

I  hope  not ! 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  45 

COUNT 

I  have  the  greatest  confidence  in  you — yet  you  are 
young,  attractive;  men  make  love  to  you.  Some 
day,  you'll  cast  a  partial  glance  at  one  of  them 

CLAUDINE 

But  you  are  already  prepared! 

COUNT 

When  I  say  that  I  have  the  greatest  confidence  in 
you,  I  mean  that  I  believe  you  would  never  make  a 
scandal  or  cause  me  to  appear  in  a  ridiculous  light. 
That  is  as  much  as  I  have  a  right  to  ask. — What 
time  is  it.? — Seven  already!    I  must  get  dressed! 

CLAUDINE 

Dining  out  to-night.? 

COUNT 

No,  I  have  some  company  at  my  place :  Humbert,  the 
painter,  who  is  in  love  with  the  Countess. 

CLAUDINE 

Humbert.?  Isn't  he  the  one  who  is  always  painting 
those  foolish,  fat  little  women — with  a  good  deal  of 
underclothing  exposed  to  the  vulgar  gaze.? 

COUNT 

He's  the  one.  The  Marquis  de  Nezelles  and  I  have 
writen  a  little  fable  about  him.     Here  it  is : 

"A  wondrous,  magic  thing  is  Art: 
One  paints  a  lady  in  scant  attire. 
In  corset,  petticoat — admire 
This  lucky  artist  who  did  part 
From  Belgium  and  who  made  his  flight 
Successfully  o'er  all  the  land. 
And  there  was  made  by  Fortune's  hand 
In  Honor's  Legion  a  doughty  knight! 

Moral: 
Lucky  artists  never  paint  historical  pictures." 


46  LOVERS  [act  i 

CLAUDINE 

How  dcHciously  foolish  you  are! 

COUNT 

It's  life!  Out  of  our  great  sorrows  we  build  fables 
to  fit. — Good-bj,  dearest. — Hasn't  Dcnise  come  in 
yet.''     Kiss  her  for  me  when  she  does. 

CLAUDINE 

I  shan't  forget. — When  shall  I  see  you  again.? 

COUNT 

I'm  coming  to  lunch  to-morrow — it'll  put  me  in  good 
humor. 

CLAUDINE 

Good,  lunch  to-morrow.  I'll  give  you  shrimps  au 
gratin! 

COUNT 

{At  the  door)     You're  a  saint!     {He  goes  out) 

CLAUDINE 

(/*  pensive  for  a  moment,  then  Prosper  enters,  car- 
rying a  letter.  She  reads  it,  then  looJcs  at  the  signa- 
ture. ) 

PROSPER 

An  answer  is  requested. 

CLAUDINE 

Very  well — I'll  call  you.  {Prosper  goes  out)  From 
Vetheuil!  {Reading)  "Dear  Madame,  on  return- 
ing to  my  room,  I  find  I  have  two  tickets  for  the 
dress  rehearsal  at  the  Opera  to-night.  You  said  you 
would  like  to  go.  I  enclose  the  tickets.  If  you  feel 
as  you  did  this  afternoon,  allow  me  the  pleasure  of 
accompanying  you ;  tell  me  when  to  come,"  etc.,  etc. 
— He's  losing  no   time!      {She  considers)     No,  I'll 


ACT  i]  LOVERS  47 

not  go!  (She  goes  to  her  desk,  puts  the  tickets  in 
an  envelope,  rings  for  the  servant,  and  gives  him  the 
envelope  as  soon  as  he  comes  in)  There  is  the  an- 
swer! 


THUS   ENDS   THE   FIRST   ACT 


SECOND    ACT 

Claudine  Rozay''s  boudoir.  Doors  to  the  right  and 
left;  a  large  window  opening  over  the  street;  a  recess, 
beyond  which  a  bedroom  and  a  large  bed — with  the 
bedclothes  turned  down — are  seen;  a  soft  light  suffuses 
the  bedroom.    At  the  back  is  the  door  of  Denise^s  room. 

Claudine  and  the  Count  enter  from  the  left. 

CLAUDINE 

I  must  see  Denise — I'm  a  little  anxious  about  her. 
She  had  a  fever  this  evening. 

COUNT 

Growing  pains,  doubtless — she's  tired. 

CLAUDINE 

I  hope  it's  nothing  more.  Stay  there,  and  don't 
make  any  noise.  {She  opens  the  door  at  the  back 
and  goes  out,  returning  a  few  moments  later) 

COUNT 

Well.? 

CLAUDINE 

She's  asleep — seems  all  right.  She  holds  her  pillow 
like  this — my  living  image,  the  angel! 

COUNT 

Your  dinner  was  a  huge  success.  It  went  off  splen- 
didly. 

CLAUDINE 

Didn't  it?  I  hope  the  guests  weren't  too  bored.  I'm 
all  tired  out. — Do  you  mind  if  I  undress.? 


ACT  n]  LOVERS  49 


COUNT 

Not  at  all.    I  must  be  going. 

CLAUDINE 

No,  no — stay — you're  not  in  the  way.     Ring  for 
Clara,  will  you.'* 

COUNT 

Why? 

CLAUDINE 

To  unhook  me. 

COUNT 

You  don't  need  Clara — I  can  do  that. 

CLAUDINE 

No,  you  can't. 

COUNT 

Let  me  try. 

CLAUDINE 

If  you  like — the  waist  first. 

COUNT 

(Unhooking)     Is  this  the  waist.'' 

CLAUDINE 

Yes — slowly  now!     What  a  hurry  you're  in!     Now 
the  skirt — there  are  three  hooks  at  the  belt. 

COUNT 

{Strug glmg  vainly)     Don't  see  how   this  is  man- 
aged !    It's  not  easy !    I  don't  see ! 

CLAUDINE 

Here,  come  to  the  fireplace,  you  can  see  better  there. 
Now,  sit  down,  you'll  find  it  easier. 

COUNT 

{Sitting  down)     Good!    It's  coming, 

CLAUDINE 

Is  it  all  right? 


60  LOVERS  [act  n 

COUNT 

Walt :  not  yet. — Damned  dressmakers  !  Don't  see 
how  you  can  stand  being  bound  like  that ! 

CLAUDINE 

It's  not  tight  at  all! 

COUNT 

I  can't  understand !    Whew — I  give  up ! 

CLAUDINE 

I  told  you !    I'll  call  Clara  now.     {She  rings) 

l^Enter  Clara. 

CLAUDINE 

Clara,  unliook  my  skirt. 

COUNT 

{Sitting  in  an  armchair)  What  was  the  matter 
with  Vetheuil  this  evening?  He  didn't  seem  very 
happy. 

CLAUDINE 

I  didn't  notice :  he  looked  as  usual. 

COUNT 

He  was  sitting  with  little  Jamine,  who  seemed  to 
think  him  very  agreeable. 

CLAUDINE 

Really!    {To  Clara)     Get  my  kimono,  please. 

COUNT 

You  heard  her,  didn't  you?  She  asked  him  to  ac- 
company her  home. 

CLAUDINE 

I  didn't  notice.  {To  Clara)  Get  my  kimono, 
please. 

COUNT 

Charming  fellow — I  like  him  Immensely. 


ACT  ii]  LOVERS  51 


CLAUDINE 

Yes,  he  is  nice.  (To  Clara)  Get  my  slippers,  and 
take  off  my  shoes. 

COUNT 

What  do  you  think  of  my  friend  Cherance.? 

CLAUDINE 

How  do  you  mean? 

COUNT 

How  do  I  mean?    He  spoke  with  you — he  talks  well. 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  interesting — and  yet  rather  tiresome. 

COUNT 

He  likes  to  hear  himself  talk — but  he's  not  at  all  an 
ordinary  man.  He's  written  a  very  remarkable  book 
on  the  Divine  Right. 

CLAUDINE 

I  didn't  know  that — but  I  did  notice  he  seemed  to 
enjoy  the  dinner 

COUNT 

He  has  a  very  fine  brain 

CLAUDINE 

Helped  himself  twice  to  ices. 

COUNT 

Capital  ices  they  were!    Where  did  they  come  from? 

CLAUDINE 

Alexandrine's,  as  usual. 

COUNT 

Curious !  My  wife  deals  there  regularly,  only  things 
never  taste  as  good  as  they  do  here.  You  lay  a  bet- 
ter table  than  she  does. 

CLAUDINE 

Yes? 


52  LOVERS  [act  n 

COUNT 

Fact,  well  known  all  over  Paris. 

CLAUDINE 

There  are  two  Alexandrines — one  good,  one  bad. 
Mme.  Alexandrine  sold  out  to  Mme.  Biard — she's  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Londres,  and  does  business 
under  the  name  of  Alexandrine ;  but  the  real  Alex- 
andrine, the  one  who  sold  her  business,  is  now  at  the 
Place  du  Havre — but  she's  a  competitor:  she's  the 
imitator. 

COUNT 

When  you're  buying  ices,  where  should  you  go? 

CI.AUDINE 

To  the  imitator,  of  course.     The  original  makes  ices 
that  smell  of  pommade. — Thank  you,  Clara,  I  shan't 
need  you  any  more — you  may  go  to  bed. 
[^Clara  goes  out. 

COUNT 

I'm  going  to  say  good-by  to  you  to-night,  dear. 

CLAUDINE 

Good-by .f*    Are  j^ou  leaving  to-morrow.? 

COUNT 

Yes,  I  must  go  to  Naples ;  Pve  just  received  a  tele- 
gram. 

CLAUDINE 

Another  conspiracy.'' 

COUNT 

I  shall  be  away  about  a  week. 

CLAUDINE 

You're  lucky  to  be  going  to  the  land  of  sunlight  and 
blue  sky. 

COUNT 

I'm  not  lucky,  for  I  can't  take  you  with  me ! 


ACT  ii]  LOVERS  53 

CLAUDINE 

(Making  conversation)     Ah,  Italy!     (Short  pause) 

COUNT 

It's  a  long  time  since  you  allowed  me  in  your  boudoir 
when  you  were  retiring. 

CLAUDINE 

Has  it  been  so  long? 

COUNT 

You  don't  remember — I  do !     (He  kisses  her) 

CLAUDINE 

(Surprised)     What's  this? 

COUNT 

I'm  kissing  you!    May  I  not  kiss  you? 

CLAUDINE 

Certainly ! 

COUNT 

You  seem  offended? 

CLAUDINE 

Not  in  the  least!  Only  I  was  a  little  surprised.  I 
wasn't  expecting — you  know  how  nervous  I  am ! 
Now — you  may  kiss  me  again.  (She  offers  her 
cheek)     Be  nice  now,  there,  there! 

COUNT 

"There,  there" — as  if  to  say :  That's  enough !  What 
perfume  are  you  using  this  evening? 

CLAUDINE 

The  usual  kind. 

COUNT 

What? 

CLAUDINE 

Secret  mixture — my  own. 
\_The  clock  strikes  ten. 


54  LOVERS  [act  n 


COUNT 

Is  that  ten? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes. — How  sleepy  I  am ! 

COUNT 

Well,  I'll  leave  you !     Good-by ! 

CLAUDINE 

Good-by. 

COUNT 

{Goes  to  the  window)     Claudine! 

CI.AU  DINE 

Yes. 

COUNT 

What  weather ! 

CLAUDINE 

Snowing,  isn't  it.'* 

COUNT 

You're  not  going  to  send  me  out  on  a  night  like 
this! 

CLAUDINE 

How  do  you  mean? 

COUNT 

I  mean,  in  this  awful  weather? 

CLAUDINE 

Why,  you  have  your  carriage,  dear ;  it's  waiting  for 
you.  You  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  Clara  has 
brought  a  heater  for  you.  You  must  go,  or  the 
water  in  the  heater  will  get  cold.  Your  coachman 
must  be  freezing  to  death — and  the  horse — think  of 
the  poor  horse ! 

COUNT 

Well,  I'll  go.  But  I  should  like  to  have  gone — com- 
forted— my  heart  warmed  up ! 


ACT  n]  LOVERS  55 

CLAUDINE 

How? 

COUNT 

You  know. 

CLAUDINE 

Would  jou  like  a  glass  of  Cognac? 

COUNT 

I  said,  my  heart! — From  you — dear  Claudine!  {He 
takes  her  in  his  arms) 

CLAUDINE 

stop,  you're  hurting  me! 

COUNT 

(Reproachfully)     Oh,  Claudine! 

CLAUDINE 

You  did  hurt  me ! 

COUNT 

I'm  sorry,  I  beg  your  pardon. — I'm  going. 

CLAUDINE 

You  mustn't  blame  me — you  understand — you  must 
be  indulgent  toward  a  hostess  who  has  entertained 
fifteen  people  at  dinner — and  after.  I'm  all  limp, 
nervous — Denise  isn't  well — and  then,  between  old 
friends,  dear! 

COUNT 

My  fault,  I  know — I  can't  help  if  I  love  you,  adore 
you — I  know  I'm  not  much  like  a  real  lover,  I'm  an 
old  fellow ! 

CLAUDINE 

You  are  Denise's  father! 

COUNT 

Yes,  yes,  you  love  your  daughter  now,  and  I  have  no 
right  to  be  jealous.     Forgive  me! 


56  LOVERS  [act  n 

CliAUDINE 

My  dear ! 

COUNT 

Only,  this  evening,  I  did  help  you  unhook,  didn't  I? 
I  was — intoxicated!  The  most  staid  of  men  have 
moments  when  the  brute  is  uppermost  in  them. 

CliAUDINE 

No,  you  weren't  brutal — you're  exaggerating. 

COUNT 

You're  always  a  dear!  Sleep  well!  Good  night! — 
Am  I — am  I  ridiculous  ? 

CLAUDINE 

(Kissing  him)  You're  so  good!  (After  he  goes 
out)     Poor  man! 

[Claudine  is  alone.  A  carriage  is  heard  driving  off: 
then  Claudine  draws  back  the  curtains  a  little,  and 
places  the  lamp  so  that  its  light  can  be  seen  outside. 
Then,  carefully,  noiselessly,  she  opens  the  door 
•whence  the  Count  has  left.     Vetheuil  appears. 

VETHEUIIi 

(In  a  long  overcoat,  the  fur  collar  of  which  is  turned 
up)    What  weather !    Fearful,  the  snow! 

CLAUDINE 

Are  you  cold? 

VETHEUIL 

Frozen  through.  I've  been  waiting  in  the  street  for 
an  hour. 

CLAUDINE 

(Brusquely)     It's  not  my  fault. 

VETHEUIL 

My  dearest,  I'm  not  blaming  you — I'm  only  too  glad 
to  be  near  you  now !    You  know  very  well  I'd  pass  a 


ACT  n]  LOVERS  57 

whole  night  like  that  to  be  with  you  for  five  minutes ! 
(He  tries  to  kiss  her) 

CLAUDINE 

Your  nose  is  frozen.  Go  to  the  fire  and  warm  your- 
self. 

VETHEUIL 

Warm  yourself,  soldier,  warm  yourself!  Ah,  the 
warm  fire !  This  is  comfortable !  You  know,  I  saw 
that  nice  little  Jamine  home.'' 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  I  know. 

VETHEUIL 

How  is  everything? 

CLAUDINE 

Splendid. 

VETHEUIL, 

Your  dinner  was  superb. 

CLAUDINE 

Ah! 

VETHEUIL 

What's  the  trouble? 

CLAUDINE 

Nothing. 

VETHEUIL 

Something's  the  matter? 

CLAUDINE 

I  teU  you :  nothing ! 

VETHEUIL 

Oh! 

CLAUDINE 

What  have  you  been  doing  to-day  ? 

VETHEUIL 

Now  for  the  little  cross-examination! 


68  LOVERS 


CLAUDINE 

Yes. 

VETHEUIL 

Well,  I  got  up  at  eight:  shaved,  washed,  combed  my 
hair,  and  dressed.  I  wore  my  gray  suit,  Scotch  tie — 
no,  it  wasn't 

CLAUDINE 

Now,  don't  try  to  be  funny ! 

VETHEUIIi 

I'm  not,  I  merely  want  to  be  exact,  as  exact  as  pos- 
sible. 

CLAUDINE 

It's  not  funny,  and  I'm  not  laughing — go  on ! 

VETHEUIL 

Then  I  went  out:  to  Hahn  Meyer's  to  see  some  old 
engravings  he  had  just  acquired.  I  picked  out  two 
for  you,  pretty  ones,  colored,  with  original  margins. 
I  took  them  to  be  framed.  You'll  have  them  a  week 
from  to-morrow. 

CLAUDINE 

WeU ?     Then? 

VETHEUIL 

Oh,  not  at  all — I'm  only  too  happy — it's  really 
nothing ! 

CLAUDINE 

What.? 

VETHEUIL 

I  thought  you  would  at  least  thank  me !  Then  I  had 
lunch  at  the  club. 

CLAUDINE 

Then.? 

VETHEUIL 

Then  I  went  to  Francucil's. 


ACT  n]  LOVERS  59 

CLAUDINE 

Ah!    Why?    I  told  you  not  to  go  there! 

VETHEUIIi 

I  know,  but  he  sent  me  a  message  this  morning  asking 
me  to  come. 

CLAUDINE 

Couldn't  he  see  you? 

VETHEUIL 

Now,  that's  not  fair.     What  have  you  against  him? 

CLAUDINE 

I — I — well,  I  don't  like  him. 

VETHEUIIi 

I  simply  had  to  go :  I  can't  cut  him  dead,  you  know. 
He  never  harmed  me,  and  he  never  even  obliged  me — 
if  he  had,  then  I  should  have  the  excuse  of  ingrati- 
tude. I  might  never  see  him  again. — After  all,  he's 
a  friend. 

CLAUDINE 

A  companion  in  vice !  And  such  vice !  You  your- 
self told  me  all  about  it  when  you  were  making  Icve 
to  me. 

VETHEUIL 

It  was  wrong  of  me.  It's  always  wrong  to  tell  things 
of  that  sort — later  on  it's  used  as  a  weapon  against 
you 

CLAUDINE 

Oh! 

VETHEUIL 

Why  don't  you  like  him? 

CLAUDINE 

He  has  no  heart,  no  moral  sense.  I  know  he  has  a 
lot  of  women  at  liis  place ;  he  knows  all  the  evil  parts 


GO  LOVERS  [act  n 

of  Paris.  When  you  visit  him,  you  always  seem  to 
regret  that  you  can't  do  as  he  does. 

VETHEUIIi 

Nothing  of  the  sort ! 

CLAUDINE 

Well,  I  don't  like  it. — Why,  he's  never  seen  twice 
with  the  same  woman ! 

VETHEUIIi 

That's  not  his  fault !  It  was  his  dream  to  have  and 
to  keep  one  woman,  but  they  have  always  either  de- 
ceived or  deserted  him. 

CLAUDINE 

Hm! 

VETHEUIL 

That's  what  made  him  what  he  is.  Well,  if  you  ob- 
ject to  him  on  the  ground  of  his  inconstancy,  you 
may  rest  at  peace  now :  he's  been  with  the  same  lady 
for  six  months. 

CLAUDINE 

She  must  be  having  a  splendid  time ! 

VETHEUIL 

She  adores  him. 

CLAUDINE 

He  must  be  spending  a  mint  of  money ! 

VETHEUIL 

She's  not  asked  for  a  sou. 

CLAUDINE 

How  stupid!  Do  such  women  exist?  Was  she  there 
when  you  were.? 

VETHEUIL 

I  didn't  see  her  if  she  was.  Francueil  was  alone.  He 
asked  me  to  say  good-by  to  him — he's  leaving. 


ACT  ii]  LOVERS  61 

CLAUDINE 

Bon  voyage!    He  must  love  her! 

VETHEUIL 

He's  mad  about  her. 

CLAUDINE 

Is  he  taking  her  with  him? 

VETHEUIL 

Oh,  no !  To  begin  with,  she's  married,  then  he's  go- 
ing too  far  away.  He's  had  a  beautiful  yacht  built 
and  is  going  on  a  cruise.  He's  just  bought  a 
Comores  for  a  song. 

CLAUDINE 

At  auction? 

VETHEUIL 

No,  in  the  Indian  Ocean.  My  dear  little  one,  the 
Comores  are  islands.  Seriously :  they  form  an  archi- 
pelago between  the  coast  of  Africa  and  Madagascar. 
He  means  to  have  a  stopping-place,  an  island,  in 
each  of  the  oceans,  forming  a  chain:  in  the  Marque- 
sas, the  Cyclades,  the  Touamotous. 

CLAUDINE 

What  are  you  talking  about? 

VETHEUIL 

It's  true.  He  goes  first  to  Siam — extraordinary 
way!  Think  of  it,  he  once  knew  an  Irish  girl  who 
was  one  of  a  party  of  Hungarian  ladies,  once  the 
mistress  of  an  envoy  of  the  King  of  Siam.  That 
ought  to  interest  Paul  Bourget,  don't  you  think  so? 
From  this  Irish  girl,  through  her  envoy,  he  obtained 
letters  of  introduction  to  the  King,  who  will  meet 
him  as  he  lands,  and  escort  him  to  the  palace  on  his 
elephant,  with  pomp  and  ceremony  and  military 
bands.    He's  lucky !    What  a  trip  I 


62  LOVERS  [act  n 


CLAUDINE 

Lucky  ?    Think  so?    You  may  go,  too,  if  you  like ! 

VETHEUIIi 

That's  not  the  question. 

CLAUDINE 

I'm  not  keeping  you :  you  are  quite  free. 

VETHEUIL 

I  know  that. 

CLAUDINE 

In  any  event,  you  can't  say  I  didn't  offer  you  an 
opportunity. 

VETHEUIL 

An  opportunity — bound  with  fetters  of  steel — but  I 
am  quite  happy.  Francueil  asked  me  to  go  with  liim, 
yet  you  know  very  well  I'd  a  thousand  times  rather 
stay  with  you! 

CLAUDINE 

You  wouldn't  leave  Paris — anyway All  your 

lady  friends !  * 

VETHEUIL 

What  do  I  care  about  them?    I  have  you ! 

CLAUDINE 

You  seemed  to  care  about  Henriette  Jamine  this 
evening. 

VETHEUIL 

Not  in  the  least! 

CLAUDINE 

What  was  so  interesting  in  her  conversation,  then? 

VETHEUIL 

Did  I  even  hsten? — Well,  she  told  me  about  her  en- 
gagement at  the  Palais-Royal. 


ACT  ii]  LOVERS  63 

CLAUDINE 

Is  she  engaged  there?  They  must  be  in  need  of  peo- 
ple for  their  curtain-raisers !  But  that  wasn't  what 
made  you  smile. 

VETHEUIL 

Did  I  smile? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  you  did. 

VETHEUIL 

Oh,  she  was  telling  me  of  her  affair  with  the  Prince 
of  Styria. 

CLAUDINE 

Was  she ?     I  never  heard  of  that!    Strange  how 

every  woman  tells  you  of  her  amours.  Why,  I've 
known  Henriette  for  ten  years,  and  she  never  said  a 
word  about  that.  See,  in  five  minutes'  time  she  told 
you  everything. 

VETHEUIL 

Is  it  my  fault  if  women ? 

CLAUDINE 

Hm !  You  take  an  interest  in  their  adventures,  you 
invite  confidences,  become  a  confessor,  a  psycholo- 
gist, you  look  deep  into  their  eyes,  read  their  hearts 
— it's  a  great  game.  Monsieur  Prudence !  That's 
what  maddens  me !  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  tell  you  all 
this — it's  foolish,  imprudent,  but  I  simply  can't  help 
it My  God,  what  a  fool  I  am ! 

VETHEUIL 

Listen,  Claudine!  My  Claudine!  This  is  unjust! 
Why,  I  come  here,  wait  an  hour  in  the  street — it's 
cold,  snowing — all  for  the  inexpressible  joy  of  seeing 
you  for  a  few  moments,  and  this  is  how  you  welcome 
me!     It's  anything  but  amusing  to  wait  for  him  to 


64  LOVERS  [act  n 

leave — leave  his  place  for  me!  You  see,  I  check  my 
dignity  at  the  door  for  the  pleasure  of  proving  that 
I  love  jou! 

CLAUDINE 

You  arc  not  jealous! 

VETHEUIL 

No?  Let  me  tell  you,  I  avi  jealous,  only  I  am  rea- 
sonable about  it.  I  don't  blame  you,  make  scenes — 
for  nothing — and  I'm  not  digging  into  the  past.  It 
doesn't  concern  me ;  it  oughtn't  to  concern  you ! 

CLAUDINE 

But  Henriette  Jamine  isn't  the  past — that  was  this 
evening,  this  very  evening!  I  wasn't  the  only  one 
who  noticed  it:  Ruyseux  noticed  it,  and  when  he  no- 
tices  1 

VETHEUIL 

He  should  mind  his  own  business. 

CLAUmNE 

What  do  you  mean.'' 

VETHEUIIi 

And  3'ou  played  the  coquette  yourself,  with  Che- 
rance ! 

CLAUDINE 

1? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes.  I  didn't  intend  to  speak  of  it — it's  absurd! — 
but  as  3^ou  began  this  dispute,  I  might  as  well  do  my 
share.  Of  course  jou  were  hostess — j'ou  could  do 
what  you  liked ! 

CLAUDINE 

I  had  to  treat  my  guests  decently — in  my  own  home  I 


ACT  ii]  LOVERS  65 

VETHEUIL 

{Loudly^  You  can  go  very  far  with  that  ideal  of 
hospitality !  Of  course,  in  your  own  home !  There 
might  be  no  limits  to  amiability ! 

CLAUDINE 

{In  an  undertone)  Please  don't  talk  so  loud:  you'll 
wake  my  daughter.  This  is  nonsense — vulgar  non- 
sense.    You  know  very  well  I'm  not  that  sort  of 

woman If  I  was  a  trifle  coquettish  it  was  only 

because  you  were  so  attentive  to  little  Jamine.  It 
was  revenge. 

VETHEUII. 

But  I  hardly  know  her — it  was  nothing  at  all.  I 
scarcely  know  the  lady.  At  least — I  saw  her  and  I 
may  never  see  her  again.  But  Cherance !  Every- 
one knows  he's  making  love  to  you,  that  he  has  only 
one  end  in  view,  it's — of  course!  His  eyes  were 
glued  on  you  all  evening,  while  Ruyseux,  who  was 
blind,  didn't  interfere !  I  wanted  to  shout  out  to  him : 
Look !     Open  your  eyes  !     You're — I  don't  know ! 

CLAUDINE 

If  he  weren't  blind,  my  friend,  you  wouldn't  be  here. 

VETHEUIL 

That  observation,  my  friend,  is  superfluous.  {A 
pause,  then  Vetheuil  says  quietly)     Claudine! 

CLAUDINE 

Yes.? 

VETHEUIL 

We  are  happy,  both  of  us ;  at  bottom  we  love  each 
other. — This  is  love,  the  deepest  kind  of  love.  You 
know  perfectly  well  that  I  adore  you  and  that  I 
would  willingly  send  Henriette  Jamine  and  all  the 
others  to  the  devil  for  your  sake.     We  have  only  a 


66  LOVERS  [act  n 

few  hours  together — a  few  minutes — and  here  we  are 
arguing ! 

CXiAUDINE 

Whose  fault  is  it? 

VETHEUIL 

Mine,  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  Only,  you 
must  be  indulgent  and  take  me  as  I  am.  Come  to 
me;  forgive  me. 

CLAUDINE 

You  always  say  things  to  wound  me :  you  were  on  the 
point  of  accusing  me  of  being  Cherance's  mistress. 

VETHEUIL 

No,  no,  no.  I  said  he  was  making  love  to  you.  That's 
true.     Forgive  me. 

CLAUDINE 

Nonsense !  lie  adores  his  wife ;  she's  given  him  five 
children,  and  is  now  expecting  a  sixth. 

VETHEUIL 

What  does  that  prove?  I  can't  prevent  men's  think- 
ing you  pretty  and  wanting  you,  yet  the  moment  you 
love  me,  I  object  to  it.  Come,  Claude  dear,  don't 
sulk — you're  unbearable  that  way.  Little  scenes  like 
this  are  necessary — of  course — they're  natural.  But 
now  it's  all  over,  eh?  Kiss  and  make  up!  {They 
Jciss) 

CLAUDINE 

Heavens,  how  hungry  I  am !  Just  think,  I  was  so 
taken  up  with  watching  you  at  dinner  that  I  scarcely 
touched  a  thing ! 

VETHEUIL 

How  ridiculous!  I,  too,  was  so  busy  watching  you 
that  I  nearly  starved. 


ACT  n]  LOVERS  67 

CLAUDINE 

(Laughing)  What  fools  we  are !  But  we  can  make 
up  for  it !  I'm  going  to  the  kitchen  and  see  whether 
anything's  left. 

VETHEUIIi 

Shall  I  come  with  you? 

CLAUDINE 

No,  no — I'll  be  back  at  once.     (SJie  disappears) 

VETHEUIIi 

{At  the  door)  Bring  some  bread — above  all,  bread. 
ILeft  alone,  he  clears  off  a  little  table,  which  he 
moves  toward  the  fireplace.  Then  Claudine  returns 
with  provisions. 

CLAUDINE 

Here's  all  I  could  find:  the  servants  didn't  touch 
their  own  dinner,  but  they  nearly  finished  ours. 

VETHEUIL 

Which  goes  to  prove  that  the  remains  of  ours  was 
better  than  all  of  theirs. 

CLAUDINE 

There's  only  cold  filet  and  cherry  preserves. 

VETHEUIL 

{Sententiously)  There  are  always  preserved  cher- 
ries left  over. 

CLAUDINE 

And  truffles,  but  I  think  those  don't  agree  with  you. 

VETHEUIL 

They  don't,  but  I  eat  them  all  the  same:  philosophi- 
cally. 

CLAUDINE 

Why,  there's  no  bread!  This  is  all  I  could  find! 
{She  shows  a  small  crust) 


68  LOVERS  [act  n 

VETHEUIl. 

What  a  pity !  That  doesn't  surprise  me,  either. 
There  is  never  any  bread  left! 

CLAUDINE 

I  didn't  bring  napkins  or  cloth;  what  shall  we  put 
on  the  table? 

VETHEUIIi 

Our  elbows. 

CLAUDINE 

Shall  we? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes !  Lay  those  things  anywhere — Champagne  on 
the  mantle — I'm  glad  there's  no  tablecloth!  Let's 
sit  on  the  sofa,*  close  together. 

CLAUDINE 

Good! 

VETHEUIL 

How  charming  you  are!  Here,  give  me  your  glass, 
and  the  moment  the  cork  goes  "pop,"  you  say: 
"Heavens,  what  a  time  I'm  having  with  the  stu- 
dents!"    {He  starts  to  open  the  bottle) 

CLAUDINE 

Don't  let  it  pop — it'll  wake  baby ! 

VETHEUIL 

Worry  not,  Queen  of  Mothers,  I'll  let  it  pop  gently. 
(He  opens  the  bottle  and  pours  out  the  wine)    Well? 

CLAUDINE 

Oh,  yes,  "Heavens,  what  a  time  I'm  having  with  the 
students  !"    Were  you  hungry  ? 

VETHEUIL 

As  a  bear. 

*  A  pun:  "Sur  le  pouf  and  "sur  le  pousse" — which  is  untrans- 
latable. 


ACT  ii]  LOVERS  69 

CLAUDINE 

Nice,  isn't  it,  to  be  supping  together  here  by  a  warm 
fire,  with  the  cold  wind  blowing  outside? — Are  jou 
cosy  ? 

VETHEUIL 

Divinely  happy  and  content. 

CLAUDINE 

To  think  that  there  arc  people  who  sleep  in  the 
streets  in  this  weather! 

VETHEUIIi 

Yes.  Not  long  ago,  while  I  was  waiting,  I  saw  a 
poor  devil  of  a  violinist,  with  his  box  under  his  arm 
— looked  like  the  skull  of  his  own  child.  That  black 
man  in  the  snow  was  a  melancholy  sight ! 

CLAUDINE 

Poor  fellow!     Did  you  give  him  something.? 

VETHEUIL 

I  didn't  dare :  he  didn't  ask. 

CLAUDINE 

That  happens  sometimes — people  who  don't  dare: 
rich  people  who  are  ashamed.  They  haven't  the 
right  not  to  dare! 

VETHEUIL 

You're  delightful,  Claudinc !  You  have  the  kindest 
heart,  the  finest  feelings  of  any  woman  I  ever  knew. 

CLAUDINE 

Is  that  true.-* 

VETHEUIL 

Yes ;  you  say  things  at  times  that  bring  tears  to  my 
eyes,  almost. 

CLAUDINE 

You  love  me.-^ 


70  LOVERS  [act  n 

VETHEUII. 

Infinitely ! 

CLAUDINE 

I  don't  ask  for  the  adverb.    You  love  me? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes. 

CLAUDINE 

Now  for  your  trouble,  I  have  some  news. 

VETHEUIIi 

Quick;  what.f^ 

CLAUDINE 

Ruyseux  is  going  away  to-morrow,  to  Naples ;  he'll 
be  gone  for  a  week.  If  you  care  to,  and  if  Denise  is 
well  enough,  we'll  spend  two  or  three  days  in  the 
Forest  at  Fontainebleau.  We'll  go  to  Gray,  where 
we  were  this  autumn,  in  Mere  Pierard's  charming 
and  tidy  little  inn.  It'll  be  delightful  now.  I've  al- 
ways wanted  to  see  the  Forest  in  mid-winter,  and 
wake  up  in  the  morning,  pull  back  the  shutters,  and 
see  the  huge  black  trees,  and  the  long  white  roads, 
and  the  pale  blue  sky !  To  lie  warm  in  bed,  and  say 
to  yourself  that  just  outside  the  window  it's  so 
cold ! 

VETHEUIL 

Excellent  idea! 

CLAUDINE 

I'll  write  to  an  old  friend  of  mine  at  Sanlis,  Mme. 
de  Liancourt  and  tell  her  I'm  coming  to  spend  a  few 
days  with  her.     Understand.'^ 

VETHEUIL 

Alibi. 

CLAUDINE 

Yes — and  I'll  bring  Clara  along. 


ACT  ii]  LOVERS  71 

VETHEUIL 

No  danger? 

CliAUDINE 

With  Clara?  She's  quite  devoted  to  me ;  I've  had  her 
ever  so  long.  She  was  with  me,  when  Denise  was 
born;  I  nursed  her  when  she  was  sick  with  typhoid 
fever.     Clara  would  willingly  die  for  me ! 

VETHEUIL 

What  train  shall  we  take? 

CliAUDINE 

Wait,  I  just  looked  at  the  time-table:  there's  a  train 
at  10:57,  which  will  bring  us  to  Gray  in  time  for 
lunch. 

VETHEUIL 

That  seems  all  right,  but  10 :57  is  a  little  early.  Will 
you  be  ready? 

CLAUDINE 

To  go  with  you,  I  could  be  ready  at  five,  if  neces- 
sary.    And  you? 

VETHEUIL 

I  have  only  to  dress:  the  valise  is  ready. 

CLAUDINE 

The  famous  valise — pontoon-bridge  soldiers  !  You 
dear  bad  man,  I  can  see  you  perfectly  the  day  you 
told  me  about  that,  in  the  drawing-room  downstairs. 
It  was  the  first  time  you  came  to  the  house.  I'll 
wager  you  don't  remember  what  day  that  was? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  I  do :  June  seventh,  a  Thursday. 

CLAUDINE 

And  to-day ? 

VETHEUIL 

September  twentieth,  a  Friday. 


72  LOVERS  [act  n 


CLAUDINE 

June,  July,  August — December,  January — eight 
months  already.  That's  a  long  time,  according  to 
modern  standards,  for  people  to  love. 

VETHEUIL 

And  it's  not  over  yet ! 

CLAUDINE 

Oh,  if  anyone  had  told  me  that  day  how  important  a 
part  in  your  life  I  should  become,  I  should  have  been 
very  much  surprised — and  yet  I  liked  you.  Now, 
don't  assume  that  foolish  look !  You  puzzled  me  a 
good  deal — I  was  very  curious  about  you. 

VETHEUIL 

Ah  ha! 

CLAUDINE 

Then  you  tried  to  work  on  my  emotions,  with  your 

beautiful  voice,  and  those  eyes !     M.  Vetheuil, 

you're  an  old  coquette !    (She  pulls  Ms  nose) 

VETHEUIL 

That  hurts! 

CLAUDINE 

That  hurts,  Henri  I — Do  you  love  your  wife.? 

VETHEUIL 

More  than 

CLAUDINE 

Then  go,  and  let  her  retire. 

VETHEUIL 

Very  well. 

CLAUDINE 

You  must  go — you've  got  to  be  up  early. 

VETHEUIL 

Are  you  going  to  send  me  away  like  this.?* 


ACT  n]  LOVERS  73 

CLAUDINE 

Yes :  now,  seriously,  run  away.     You  must. 

VETHEUIL 

I  must  ? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  I'm  entirely  exhausted.    Be  considerate:  I'll  be 
so  grateful. 

VETHEUIL 

Grateful.? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes. 

VETHEUIL 

Why.? 

CLAUDINE 

Because  Denise  is  not  well.     I'm  always  afraid  that 
that's  my  punishment  for  loving  you. 

VETHEUIL 

Nonsense. 

CLAUDINE 

You  know  how  superstitious  I  am  where  my  daugh- 
ter is  concerned. 

VETHEUIL 

Claudine,  this  is  heartless !    You  don't  know  how  cold 
it  is  outdoors ! 

CLAUDINE 

You  still  insist? 

VETHEUIL 

{Kissing  her)     Because  I  love  you,  I  adore  you!     I 
should  like  to  have — I'd  thought 

CLAUDINE 

{Disengaging  herself)     Sh!    Don't  say  that! 

VETHEUIL 

Why.? 


74  LOVERS  [act  n 


CLAUDINE 

Oil,  nothing.     {Resolutely)     Not  this  evening. 

VETHEUIL 

(Looking  at  her)     Ah,  I  understand. 

CLAUDINE 

What-f*    What  do  you  understand? 

VETHEUIIi 

I  understand,  and  so  do  you. 

CLAUDINE 

Georges,  your  insinuation  is  hateful.     He  was  here 

just  now,  but — I  swear No!     I  told  you  some 

time  ago  what  I  had  to  tell  you  on  that  point:  you 
ouffht  to  be  reassured. 

VETHEUIL 

You  all  say  the  same  thing. 

CLAUDINE 

Because  you  all  ask  the  same  thing.    But  I  swear  to 

you,  by  my  little  girl !     May  she  die  if  I  am 

lying! — you  see  how  calm  I  am! — Do  you  believe 
me? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  I  believe  you. 

CLAUDINE 

Don't  be  jealous :  it's  a  luxury. — Poor  man ! 

VETHEUIL 

Do  you  expect  me  to  pity  him? 

CLAUDINE 

You  might.     He's  not  very  happy  with  his  wife — 
she  goes  about  in  public  with  other  men. 

VETHEUIL 

Why  doesn't  he  divorce  her? 


ACT  n]  LOVERS  75 

CLAUDINE 

Because  they  are  members  of  a  circle  where  divorce 
is  out  of  the  question.  You  know,  when  a  woman  is 
unhappy  there,  her  confessor  advises  her  to  have  a 
liaison  in  preference  to  a  divorce.  What  then  can 
be  done  in  the  man's  case?  Why  should  he  divorce 
her.?  If  he  did  it  for  my  sake,  he  would  be  badly 
recompensed. 

VETHEUIL 

At  least,  he  would  be  deceived  on  one  side  only. 

CLAUDINE 

See,  you  are  not  really  jealous  of  him? 

VETHEUIL 

At  bottom,  I  am  not. 

CLAUmNE 

Do  you  like  him? 

VETHEUIL 

Very  much. 

CLAUDINE 

He  idolizes  you.  (The  clock  strikes  three)  Here 
we  are,  the  two  of  us,  at  three  in  the  morning.  What 
if  some  one  were  to  come  in?  Who  would  believe 
that  we  were  two  platonic  lovers?    No  one. 

VETHEUIL 

And  my  recompense? 

CLAUDINE 

Not  later  than  to-morrow.  Now  go,  only  I  want 
you  to  say  nice  things  to  me  before  you  leave.  But 
you  needn't  if  you  don't  wish  to. 

VETHEUIL 

Claudine,  you  know  I  adore  you — you're  the  best, 

prettiest !     You  are  mine,  wholly  mine — I  can't 

think  of  any  other  woman  than  you !    We  may  quar- 


76  LOVERS  [act  n 

rel  from  time  to  time,  but  that  is  nothing — we  do 
understand  each  other,  don't  we?  Once  in  a  while 
there  arises  a  faint  shadow  of  remorse,  of  pity,  be- 
tween us — for  him!  And  when  you're  out  of  humor, 
you  mustn't  blame  me!     Claudine,  Claudine,  this  is 

how  I  love  you — with  all  my  power  of  devotion ! 

{He  kneels  before  her) 

CLAUDINE 

That's  enough — now  I'm  happy.  Run  away,  and 
don't  make  any  noise.  I'll  go  out  onto  the  balcony 
and  watch  you,  keep  you  warm  as  long  as  possible. 

VETHEUIL 

That's  not  wise!  You'll  catch  cold — I  don't  want 
you  to ! 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  I'll  wrap  up  warmly. 

VETHEUIL 

No,  no If  you  do  that,  I'll  kill  myself  under 

your  very  window. 

CLAUDINE 

I  shan't  insist  then.  Well,  to-morrow  morning — 
10:57.    Don't  forget. 

VETHEUIL 

How  could  I? — Good  night,  beloved! 

CLAUDINE 

Good  night,  my  lover!  {Vetheuil  goes  out.  After  a 
moment,  Claudine  extinguishes  the  lamp,  then  par- 
tially opens  the  door  into  Denise's  room,  to  see 
whether  the  child  is  sleeping) 

THUS  ENDS  THE  SECOND  ACT 


THIRD    ACT 

VetlieuiVs  study.  There  is  a  large  table,  and  some 
bookshelves  around  the  walls.  The  room  is  dignified 
and  elegant  as  to  furnishings,  but  not  sumptuous. 

Vetheuil  and  De  Sambre  are  present. 

VETHEUIL 

Cigar  good? 

SAMBRE 

Excellent,  old  man,  just  the  kind  I  like — rather 
strong. 

VETHEUIL 

What  will  you  drink?  Forty  liqueurs  to  choose 
from. 

SAMBRE 

God  bless  you!  I'll  have  a  Kiimmel  frappe.  Sum- 
mer is  here  and  one  must  have  cold  drinks.  Do  you 
know  how  to  make  cocktails? 

VETHEUIL, 

Why — no. 

SAMBRE 

Lord,  you  must  learn.  A  friend  of  mine,  awfully 
rich — likes  to  drink — went  to  America  just  to  learn 
how  to  make  cocktails :  took  lessons  for  a  year  from 
the  barkeeper  of  the  Hoffman  House  in  New  York. 
Then  he  became  a  barkeeper  himself  in  New  Orleans 
— they  make  the  best  cocktails  In  Louisiana,  you 
know. 


78  LOVERS  [act  m 

VETHEUIL 

I  didn't  know,  but  I'm  glad  to  hear  it. 
l^Enter  a  servant. 

SERVANT  (Handing  Vetheuil  a  card) 

A  gentleman.     He  would  like  to  see  Monsieur. 

VETHEUIL 

Ask  him  to  come  in.     (The  servant  goes  out) 
l^Enter  the  Count  de  Ruyseux. 

COUNT 

How  are  you?     Hope  I'm  not  intruding.' 

VETHEUIL, 

Not  in  the  least :  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  Let  me 
present  my  old  friend  Paul  de  Sambre — Count  de 
Ruyseux.     (The  men  how)     Sit  down. 

COUNT 

I  shan't  stay  long.  I  just  came  to  ask  why  you 
didn't  appear  yesterday.? 

VETHEUIL 

Yesterday  ^    Where  ? 

COUNT 

I  thought  so !  You  forgot  you  were  invited  to  dine 
with  Claudine  and  me,  and  that  we  were  going  to  the 
FoUes-Bergeres  afterward  to  see  the  debut  of  the 
Princess  Soukhivitchi. 

VETHEUIL 

That's  so !  I  forgot  all  about  it.  I  was  so  busy 
yesterday!  I've  just  been  putting  some  afFaii-s  in 
order  that  I  hadn't  looked  at  for  ten  years.  I  was 
all  topsy-turvy.    Did  you  wait  long  for  me? 

COUNT 

Naturally — you  didn't  let  us  know — I  was  afraid 
you  might  be  ill. 


ACT  m]  LOVERS  79 

VETHEUIL 

I'm  dreadfully  sorry,  but  it  quite  slipped  my  mind. 
I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times  ! 

COUNT 

That's  all  right.  The  important  point  is  to  know 
you're  not  sick. 

VETHEUIL. 

Did  you  enjoy  yourselves?     How  was  the  Princess? 

COUNT 

Very  pretty. 

VETHEUIL 

A  real  princess? 

COUNT 

Yes — legally  married  to  the  Prince  Soukhivitchi. 
She  came  of  a  great  family  herself,  the  La  Roche- 
Ferrieres — I  used  to  run  around  there  when  I  was  a 
child,  but  I'm  not  at  all  proud ! — She  married  this 
Prince  Soukhivitchi,  though  she  didn't  love  him.  She 
has  an  aversion  to  men. 

VETHEUIL 

There  is  every  variety  of  taste  in  nature. 

SAME  RE 

Rather  a  handicap  to  her! 

COUNT 

They  separated  after  a  year:  each  had  been  kicking 
over  the  traces.  She  was  left  without  a  sou,  so  when 
her  family  refused  to  give  her  money,  she  went  to  the 
Folies-Bergeres  to  spite  them. 

VETHEUIIi 

Must  have  been  a  packed  house.  They  didn't  whistle 
her  off? 


80  LOVERS  [act  m 

COUNT 

No — that  is  to  say,  the  fashionable  part  of  tlie  audi- 
ence, in  the  boxes,  gave  her  a  warm  reception  and 
hearty  applause.  But  the  gallery  seemed  to  under- 
stand that  she  was  doing  a  low  trick,  and  protested 
vigorously.  Then  she  sang  songs  to  calm  the  peo- 
ple, a  new  style  all  her  own — "Chansons  vaches" — 
I've  never  heard  such  vileness. 

SAMBRE 

They'll  go  the  rounds  of  the  salons. 

COUNT 

(Rising)  Doubtless.  Well,  I  must  go.  (To  Ve- 
theuil,  •who  escorts  him  to  the  door)  Come  to  the 
Place  des  Etats-Unis  a  little  later,  if  you  have  a  few 
minutes  to  spare.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter 
with  Claudine:  she's  moody,  bored,  fidgety — you 
seem  to  be  the  only  one  who  can  handle  her.  Come 
and  see  her:  it'll  be  an  errand  of  mercy. 

VETHEUIL 

With  pleasure — I'll  try  to — I'm  waiting  for  a  tele- 
gram just  now.  I  may  be  forced  to  leave  town  any 
moment:  pressing  affairs — family  matters. 

COUNT 

Where  are  you  going? 

VETHEUIL. 

I  don't  know. 

COUNT 

You  don't  know  where  your  family  is?  You  are  a 
funny  fellow !  Invite  you  to  dinner  and  you  forget 
to  come.    You  are  a  character! 

VETHEUIL 

Now,  now 


ACT  m]  LOVERS  81 


COUNT 

Well,  good-by.  {To  De  Sambre)  Very  glad  to  have 
made  your  acquaintance,  Monsieur.  (They  shake 
hands.  Vetheuil  conducts  the  Count  out  and  then 
reenters) 

SAMBRE 

Was  that  the  Count  de  Ruyseux? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes. 

SAMBRE 

He's  the 

VETHEUIL 

Yes. 

SAMBRE 

Nice  fellow. 

VETHEUIL 

Yes. 

SAMBRE 

Very  amiable;  very! 

VETHEUIL 

Very!     Altogether  quite  charming 

SAMBRE 

Tell  me,  have  you  fallen  out  with  her? 

VETHEUIL 

How  do  you  know  that.? 

SAMBRE 

All  Paris  knows  it,  my  dear  fellow — except  one ! 

VETHEUIL 

All  Paris  had  much  better  mind  its  own  business. 
Now  I  understand  why  you  came  to  see  me:  you've 
come  to  study  me,  to  pry  into  my  troubles.  Well,  I 
have  no  trouble,  and  I  am  not  unhappy !  I  may  suf- 
fer to-morrow,  I  may  suffer  within  an  hour,  but  for 


82  LOVERS  [act  hi 

the  present,  I  am  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Tell  that  to 
All  Paris,  Doctor! 

SAMBRE 

I  shan't  fail  to. 

VETHEUIL, 

I  am  happy,  very  happy,  because  I'm  free !  That's 
what  was  weighing  on  me  continually:  I  felt  all  the 
time  I  was  a  slave.  How  good  it  is  to  come  and  go 
when  I  like,  to  do  what  I  like  from  hour  to  hour  and 
minute  to  minute,  to  see  my  friends — in  other  words, 
to  live! 

SAMBRE 

My  dear  fellow,  that's  not  of  prime  interest  to  me. 
So  much  the  worse  for  you,  I  say,  if  your  mistress 
was  so  absorbing  as  all  that. 

VETHEUIL 

You  have  never  really  loved,  have  you.'' 

SAMBUE 

I  have  loved  but  one  woman,  and  she  was  a  servant: 
when  I  was  thirteen  my  mother's  maid  possessed  for 
me  every  possible  charm.  Her  name  was  Cesarine — 
she  was  a  blond  from  Bordeaux.  Of  course,  a  child 
of  thirteen  hasn't  a  very  definite  or  individual  char- 
acter— I  realize  now  that  Cesarine  may  not  have 
been  all  I  imagined  her  in  former  days. 

VETHEUIIi 

Probably  not. 

SAMBRE 

Since  then  I  have  had  numerous  affairs,  but  they 
have  never  been  of  real  importance. 

VETHEUIL 

You  know,  I  admire  you. 


ACT  III]  LOVERS  83 


SAME  RE 

My  dear  fellow:  the  Orientals,  understanding  women 
perfectly,  have  put  them  in  their  proper  place.  Now 
we  live  in  the  Occident ;  we  don't  veil  our  women  and 
put  them  under  lock  and  key  and  a  guard,  but  we 
must  put  them,  metaphorically  speaking,  in  the 
harem,  and  not  allow  them  to  wander  about  in  the 
domain  of  our  thoughts,  nor  the  avenues  of  our 
heart,  nor  the  little  streets  of  our  occupation.  Un- 
derstand? 

VETHEUIL 

Perfectly.  But  if  the  woman  breaks  out  of  her 
metaphorical  harem.?  If  she  deceives  you?  It's  in- 
evitable ! 

SAMBRE 

Every  contingency  has  been  considered.  Under  the 
conditions  I  have  made,  woman  won't  trouble  us; 
that  is  the  main  point.  She  will  find  her  power  over 
us  greatly  reduced:  when  she  gives  herself,  either 
to  you  or  to  your  neighbor,  then  you  can  see  it  all  in 
its  true  colors  and  appraise  it  at  its  real  worth,  and 
not  its  factitious  value,  which  is  merely  the  result  of 
our  prejudices,  our  pride,  and  our  sentimentality. 

VETHEUIIi 

But  what  should  we  gain  by  knowing  the  real  worth? 

SAMBRE 

You  do  away  with  lovemaking,  chivalrous  nonsense, 
jealousy,  everything  that  takes  up  good  time — occa- 
sionally a  whole  life.  A  man  of  twenty-five,  if  he 
falls  under  the  influence  of  a  woman,  can  do  nothing 
serious  or  useful  in  life.  I  don't  know  how  old  3^ou 
are — thirty-four?  You've  wasted  your  time,  you've 
lost  yourself  in  the  folds  of  a  petticoat,  in  the  midst 


84  LOVERS  [act  m 

of  the  ocean  of  the  world,  like  the  diver  in  his  glass 

clock,  that  Jean-Paul  speaks  of Well,  I  say 

there  are  more  interesting  things  to  do,  and  in  any 
science,  more  infinitely  fascinating  problems  to  solve. 

VETHEUIl. 

You're  mistaken :  love  is  itself  an  art  and  a  science. 

SAMBRE 

Nonsense!  Hasn't  it  always  been  the  same?  Every 
love  affair  ends  the  same  way :  it's  very  faulty  mathe- 
matics that  tries  to  resolve  it  into  rules  of  three. 

VETHEUIL 

That's  all  very  well,  but  you  forget  that  certain  peo- 
ple are  born  lovers,  just  as  poets  or  musicians  are 
born 

SAMBRE 

Or  butchers !    We  must  learn  to  scorn  love. 

VETHEUIL, 

Trot  along  with  your  scorn. — You  pretend  love  is 
powerless  because  you  cannot  be  loved.  What  right 
have  you  to  talk  of  love,  you  who  never  got  beyond 
your  mother's  maid  ?  I  was  not  in  the  least  surprised 
to  hear  you  say  that  "every  contingency  had  been 
considered."  I  tell  you  there  are  women  with  whom 
these  contingencies  are  of  singular  importance ;  and 
when  they  give  themselves,  body  and  soul,  I — I  find 
the  gift  worth  the  trouble! 

SAMBRE 

You  are  excited  about  it ! 

VETHEUIL 

Not  at  all — only  there  are  certain  sensations,  emo- 
tions  

SAMBRE 

{Ironically)  Intoxications! 


ACT  m]  LOVERS  85 

VETHEUIL, 

Yes — intoxications,  which  you  have  never  dreamed 
of! 

SAMBRE 

Ah,  yes!  (Declaiming)  "Eternal  angel  of  happy 
nights,  thou  who  will  tell  of  thy  silence!  Oh,  kiss, 
mysterious  union,  poured  by  the  lips  as  from  cups! 
Intoxication  of  the  senses,  oh  divine  sweetness !  Yes, 
like  God,  thou  art  immortal !"  * 

VETHEUIl. 

It's  easy  to  jeer — and  further,  that's  only  litera- 
ture you  quote  now!  But  there  are  certain  memo- 
ries not  to  be  recalled  by  words :  landscapes  of  hap- 
piness seen  again  only  in  the  inner  silence  of  the 
heart — tender  backgrounds  with  wide-sweeping, 
calm,  wave-hke  lines.  A  melody  once  heard,  a  per- 
fume breathed — and  you  live  again  in  all  their  in- 
tensity the  hours  of  yesteryear,  you  live  with  the 
soul  you  had  then.  Then  life  becomes  worth  living. 
Why,  I  remember — no,  you  wouldn't  understand 

SAMBRE 

Never  mind. 

VETHEUIIi 

I  feel  sorry  for  you. 

SAMBRE 

I  feel  sorry  for  you:  you  love  her  still — and  you 
will  suffer  again. 

VETHEUIIi 

No — I'm  going  away  to-night,  so 

[Enter  a  servant, 

SERVANT 

A  lady,  who  would  like  to  speak  with  Monsieur 

*  Alfred  de  Musset,  La  Confession  d'un  Enfant  du  Siicle. 


86  LOVERS  [act  ra 

VETHEUIL 

Tell  her  to  come  in.     (The  servant  goes  out) 

SAMBRE 

I'll  run,  old  man.  You  say  you're  leaving  to-night; 
but  I  know  it's  not  adieu,  only  au  revoir.  I'll  come 
in  to  see  you  to-morrow  about  this  time 

VETHEUIL 

No  use! 

[^De  Sambrc,  as  he  is  leaving,  finds  himself  face  to 
face  with  Henriette  Jamine.  He  stands  to  one  side 
and  allows  her  to  pass.  Enter  Mme.  Jamine,  as  De 
Sambre  goes  out. 

VETHEUIIi 

How  are  you,  friend.'' 

MADAME  cTAMINE 

How  are  you,  monster.'*  You  are  a  pretty  one! — It's 
nice  here. 

VETHEUIL 

That's  so :  you've  never  seen  my  rooms.  Now,  to 
what  do  I  owe  the  pleasure  of  this  visit? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Can't  you  guess  .f* 

VETHEUIL 

No. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

I've  seen  Claudine. 

VETHEUIL 

Ah! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

She's  very  sad. 

VETHEUIL 

I'm  not  gay  myself,  but  whose  fault  is  it.^*  Not  mine, 
surely.? 


ACT  III]  LOVERS  87 

MADAME  JAMINE 

You've  not  been  over-nice  to  her. 

VETHEUIL 

Did  she  say  I  beat  her? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

No,  but  jou  make  her  very  miserable. 

VETHEUIL. 

She  is  doing  that.    Well,  what  does  she  have  to  say? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

That  there  was  an  awful  scene ;  she  said  you  left  in 
a  mad  fury,  and  hadn't  been  to  see  her  for  two  days. 

VETHEUIL 

It  was  fearful,  and  so  downright  stupid ! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

What  was  the  reason? 

VETHEUIL 

You'd  never  guess — in  a  thousand  guesses :  about  a 
horseback  ride. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

What,  she's  not  jealous  of  your  horse? 

VETHEUIL 

No,  but  when  I  go  to  the  Bois,  she  has  forbidden  me 
to  go  through  certain  lanes ;  she's  afraid  I  might 
meet  some  of  my  lady  friends. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Is  she  as  jealous  as  all  that? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes — it's  perfectly  absurd.  Well,  the  day  before 
yesterday,  in  the  morning,  I  disobeyed  orders — I 
was  seen  in  the  Acacias — one  of  the  forbidden 
drives 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Acacias!    I  should  think  so ! 


88  LOVERS  [act  m 

VETHEUII, 

In  the  afternoon  I  visit  Claudine,  am  received  as  if 
I'd  committed  a  crime  against  love — I  don't  know, 
it's  as  if  I'd  made  love  to  Clara,  after  forcing  her 
to  give  up  her  religion. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Not  as  bad  as  all  that! 

VETHEUIL 

Ah  yes!     That's  the  way  it  began — it  was  childish. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

She  loves  you;  she's  like  every  woman  who  is  really 
in  love:  jealous  and  domineering. 

VETHEUIL 

But  there  are  limits ! 

MADAME   JAMINE 

If  you'd  only  seen  me  and  Philippe — I  adored  that 
boy! — I  would  never  let  him  go  unaccompanied  to  a 
restaurant,  to  the  theater,  or  the  races !  I  made  him 
fall  out  with  all  his  friends,  and  made  any  number 
of  scenes.  I  made  life  miserable  for  him.  He  was 
the  only  man  I  ever  really  loved.  We  women  are 
always  like  that  when  we  truly  love. 

VETIIEUII. 

Yes,  it's  a  sort  of  revenge. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

And  the  arguments  and  quarrels — !  I  remember,  one 
day  he  was  teasing  me  about  a  woman — he  was  in 
the  bath  tub.  I  hit  him  over  the  shoulder  with  a 
riding  whip. 

VETHEUIL 

Really?     What  did  he  say.? 


ACT  III]  LOVERS  89 

MADAME  JAMINE 

He  turned  white  as  a  sheet — I  thought  he  was  going 
to  kill  me — then  he  said :    "Get  out !" 

VETHEUIL. 

And  you  escaped? 

MADAME   JAMINE 

In  a  jiffy.    I  wasn't  really  in  earnest,  though. 

VETHEUIL, 

Then  what  happened? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

(Simply)     Reconciliation — that's  love! 

VETHEUIL 

Yes — there  are  people  who  like  to  be  beaten — but 
I'm  not  one  of  them.  Thank  God,  our  love  was  not 
of  the  riding-whip  variety,  but  it  gave  signals  of 
distress,  as  it  were. 

MADAME   JAMINE 

So  soon!    How  long  have  you  known  each  other? 

VETHEUIL 

It  will  soon  be  a  year. 

MADAME   JAMINE 

A  year?     It  can't  end  like  that! 

VETHEUIL 

Yes.  There's  no  other  way  out.  There  must  at 
least  be  some  sort  of  change. 

MADAME   JAMINE 

You  ought  to  be  indulgent:  you  know  her  so  well! 
You  are  stronger  than  she  is — be  kind  to  her — try 
to 

VETHEUIE 

I  have,  but  for  som.e  time  these  scenes  have  been  of 
almost  daily  occurrence.  The  slightest  thing,  or 
nothing,  will  precipitate  one.     She's  so  jealous! 


90  LOVERS  [act  m 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Of  what?  Of  whom?  There  are  no  grounds,  are 
there  ? 

VETHEUIL 

Of  course  not ;  that's  why  it's  all  so  absurd.  She's 
jealous  of  everything — of  you !  Why,  one  night  she 
gave  me  a  severe  talking  to  because  she  thought  I 
was  paying  too  much  attention  to  you! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

{With  dignity)  That  was  wrong  of  her.  When  a 
man  is  already  disposed  of,  I  wouldn't  for  a  moment 
consider — !  He's  sacred.  I've  often  said  to  myself: 
Claudine  is  not  careful  enough,  she's  too  domineer- 
ing, she'll  have  an  awful  bump  some  day. 

VETHEUIL 

Like  a  cable  that's  too  tight.  There  are  times  when 
you  can  see  it's  going  to  break:  in  technical  lan- 
guage, the  cable  is  warning.  Well,  what  happened 
yesterday  was  one  of  those  warnings.  (A  pause) 
Did  she  send  you? 

MADAME   JAMINE 

Yes,  but  she  told  me  not  to  say  so.  She  loves  you, 
she  adores  you ;  she's  sick — suffering.  Don't  be  hard 
with  her. 

VETHEUIL. 

I'm  not. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

You'll  not  soon  again  find  another  woman  like  her — 
so  good,  so  intelligent! 

VETHEUIX. 

Yes,  I  know. 


ACT  ni]  LOVERS  91 

MADAME  JAMINE 

You  were  to  have  dined  with  her  and  Ruyseux  last 
night — it  seems  you  didn't  go? 

VETHEUIl. 

I  forgot  all  about  it — word  of  honor !  Otherwise  I 
should  have  sent  word,  without  fail ! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

She  thought  it  was  done  purposely,  especially  as  she 
knew  you  dined  with  Ravier  and  his  crowd. 

VETHEUIL 

Yes? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

There  were  some  ladies  of  accommodating  virtue 
there;  she  imagined  you  might  have  been  with  one 
of  those. 

VETHEUIL 

Good  Lord,  no!  You  can  assure  her!  What  could 
lead  me  to  do  that? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

To  forget,  to  drown  your  sorrows ! 

VETHEUIL 

No,  no — the  chase  Claudine  has  been  leading  me  for 
some  time  has  made  me  forget  myself.  I'm  com- 
pletely changed.  What  I  want  now  is  peace,  rest. 
I'm  leaving  to-night;  going  to  bury  myself  in  Brit- 
tany, by  the  seashore,  all  alone. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

You're  going  away?    But  I  can't  tell  her  that! 

VETHEUIL 

You  don't  have  to — but  I'm  not  going  away  for- 
ever— this  is  not  flight. 


92  LOVERS  [act  m 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Are  jou  going  without  seeing  lier,  or  saying  good- 
by? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  I  mustn't  see  her  at  this  time.  I  must  collect 
myself,  see  clearly — alone. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

You  can't  do  that — it  would  cause  her  a  great  deal 
of  pain. 

VETHEUIIi 

I'll  write ;  she'll  have  a  letter  this  very  evening — full 
of  tenderness — and  I'll  explain  it  all  much  better 
than  you  could.  You  needn't  say  a  word  to  her. 
Promise  you  won't  say  anything ! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

I  promise. 

VETHEUIL 

Now  I  want  you  to  be  with  her  when  she  gets  this 
letter^ — I'll  manage  to  have  it  arrive  at  seven — in 
order  that  you  may  tell  her  in  what  frame  of  mind 
you  found  me,  and  that  I  adore  her. — Only,  I  tell 
you  I  must  have  a  change — this  couldn't  last — I 
must  take  a  decisive  step. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

That's  clear  enough,  but  what  shall  I  tell  her  now? 
She's  waiting  for  me. 

VETHEUIL 

Tell  her  I  wasn't  at  home. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

That's  good ;  well,  I'll  run  along.  Write  her  a  nice 
letter.     Good-by. 


ACT  III]  LOVERS  93 

VETHEUIIi 

Good-by — thanks  for  coming.  You  are  a  true 
friend. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

I  love  you  both.     Good-by,  bon  voyage,  and  come 
back  soon.     {^She  goes  out,  Vetheuil  rings) 
[^Enter  the  Servant. 

SERVANT 

Monsieur? 

VETHEUIL 

Pack  up — I'm  going  away  immediately. 

SERVANT 

Will  Monsieur  be  gone  long? 

VETHEUIL 

No :  a  week  or  two  at  the  outside.  I'll  take  only  my 
valise,  the  yellow  one.  Put  it  on  the  sofa,  together 
with  the  traveling  rug,  so  that  I  only  have  to  take 
them  and  go. 

SERVANT 

At  once? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  at  once.  (Vetheuil  performs  the  pantomime  of 
a  man  considering  the  composition  of  a  difficult  let- 
ter. Meantime  the  servant  has  brought  the  valise 
and  traveling  rug,  and  placed  them  on  the  sofa. 
Then,  while  Vetheuil  is  writing  his  letter,  the  door 
quietly  opens,  and 
[^Enter  Claudine. 

VETHEUIL 

{Hearing  the  door  open,  he  lifts  his  head.  Then  he 
rises)     You ! 


94.  LOVERS  [act  m 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  I.  (She  sits  down.  A  pause.  She  coughs) 
How  smoky ! 

VETHEUII. 

Shall  I  open  the  window? 

CLAUDINE 

Never  mind — you  weren't  expecting  me? 

VETHEUIL 

No. 

CLAUDINE 

See,  I'm  not  proud:  I  come  to  you,  as  you  don't 
come  to  me.  Only — Jamine  has  just  come  from  my 
house — or — why  lie  about  it?  I  was  waiting  for 
her  in  my  carriage  outside.  She  told  me  you  were 
going  away.     Is  that  true? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes. 

CLAUDINE 

So,  if  I  hadn't  come,  you  would  have  gone  without 
saying  good-by?  What  have  I  done?  Men  leave 
women  who  have  made  them  suffer,  who  have  de- 
ceived them,  who  are  exercising  an  evil  influence  over 
them.     You  have  nothing  to  complain  of. 

VETHEUIL 

I  should  have  been  gone  only  a  few  days.  Then — I 
was  just  writing  to  you. 

CLAUDINE 

Why  write?  So  that  what  you  had  to  say  would  be 
more  definite,  irreparable — ?  Now  you  may  say 
what  you  had  to  say;  I'll  listen.  I  shan't  make  a 
scene — you  seem  to  imagine  that's  my  specialty,  that 
I  make  your  life  miserable. 


ACT  III]  LOVERS  '  95 

VETHEUIIi 

A  corrupted  version  must  have  reached  you:  if  I 
determined  to  write  instead  of  seeing  you,  it  was 
simply  because  I  was  afraid,  not  of  you,  but  of  my- 
self. 

CLAUDINE 

You  were  afraid  of  being  weak — you  might  pity 
me !  But  I  have  no  need  of  pity.  Now  you  are  per- 
fectly free  to  tell  me  everything. 

VETHEUIL 

Very  well,  let  us  have  a  frank  explanation.  Listen, 
Claudine.  I  love  you.  {Gesture  from  Claudine) 
Don't  doubt  it.  I  love  you — and  for  that  very  rea- 
son, the  life  I'm  living  now  is  no  longer  endurable. 
I  love  you  so  deeply  that  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of 
sharing  you  with  anyone  else.  You  must  be  aU 
mine,  just  as  I  am  all  yours. 

CLAUDINE 

But  am  I  not? 

VETHEUIL 

No — things  exist  between  us — you  know.  It's  very 
irksome,  for  instance,  to  wait  at  night,  until  he, 
your — until  he  goes  ! 

CLAUDINE 

Is  that  all  you  object  to?  You  haven't  had  to  wait 
often.  He  is  a  friend:  you  knew  that  when  we  first 
met — I  didn't  lie  about  it. 

VETHEUIL 

Doubtless,  but  we're  continually  going  round  and 
round.  At  first,  I  didn't  fully  realize,  I  didn't  know 
him  then.  Now  I  take  his  hand  in  mine  every  day — 
Pve  learned  to  appreciate  him,  respect  him!     He 


96  LOVERS  [act  m 

has  such  confidence  in  me!  I  feel  it's  not  right  to 
lie  to  him,  deceive  him. 

CLAUDINE 

But  what  about  me?  You  can't  be  more  of  a  Royal- 
ist than  the  king? 

VETHEUIL 

That  may  be,  but  our  love  must  not  be  founded  on 
lies.  There  must  be  nothing  between  us :  you  must 
choose. 

CLAUDINE 

How  can  I.'' 

VETHEUIL, 

That  was  what  I  was  going  to  suggest.  I  want  you 
to  be  with  me. 

CLAUDINE 

Where  ? 

VETHEUIL 

No  matter — in  my  house — anywhere — it  makes  no 
difference. 

CLAUDINE 

You  want  me  to  leave  Ruyseux.'* 

VETHEUIL 

Yes. 

CLAUDINE 

No:  I  have  no  right.  You're  asking  me  to  leave  a 
man  who  has  never  been  anything  but  kind  to  me,  a 
man  I  never  had  reason  to  complain  of.  It  would 
be  a  terrible  blow  for  him.  It  would  be  base — I  can't 
do  that.     No,  I  can't. 

VETHEUIL 

Then  you  don't  love  me? 


ACT  III]  LOVERS  97 

CLAUDINE 

Don't  be  foolish:  I  love  you,  and  I  won't  let  you 
doubt  it  for  a  second.  You  know  that  only  too  well. 
Listen  to  me :  if  you  happened  to  be  obliged  to  fight 
a  duel  for  a  point  of  honor  to-morrow,  you  would 
fight  in  spite  of  my  prayers  and  deepest  wishes — I 
might — die  of  it.  That's  the  way  with  women :  there 
are  certain  circumstances  under  which  we  ought  not 
to  give  in,  even  hesitate.  We  don't  fight  duels,  we 
make  sacrifices.  That  is  why  I  cannot  do  what  you 
ask  me.  Just  consider:  he  adores  me,  he  loves  his 
daughter — can  we  both  leave  him?  What  would  the 
poor  man  do.f*  It  would  be  cowardly — and  you  can- 
not ask  me  to  do  a  cowardly  act. 

VETHEUII. 

How  you  love  him!  And  yet  you  are  unfaithful  to 
him. 

CI/AUDINE 

He  doesn't  know — and  he  doesn't  suffer — isn't  that 
the  main  point.''    Then  there  is — my  little  girl. 

VETHEUIL, 

Yes — Denise — I 

CLAUDINE 

{Putting  her  hand  over  his  mouth)  Sh !  Yes,  my 
little  girl:  I  must  think  of  her  future:  if  I  went  off 
with  you,  if  there  were  to  be  a  scandal  in  my  life, 
some  day,  when  it  was  time  she  married,  it  might  be 
said  to  her,  "Birds  of  a  feather " 

VETHEUIL 

But — now — her  father  isn't  your  husband! 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  but  there  is  just  as  much  hypocrisy  needed  in 
the  circle  where  I  live,  as  in  the  real  one — the  other. 


98  LOVERS  [act  hi 

if  you  like!  Then  there  are  material  considerations 
which  we  must  keep  in  mind.  If  I  went  off  with  you, 
would  her  father  continue  to  look  after  her?  He  is 
a  man  of  honor — that's  undeniable — but  there  is  a 
limit!  Then  I  don't  want  Denise  to  have  to  go 
through  what  I  did,  all  alone — I  know  too  well  what 
it  cost  me:  the  suffering,  the  dangers.  And  nowa- 
days, more  than  ever,  young  girls  must  have  dowries. 

VETHEUIL 

What  can  I  say.?  Of  course  those  are  all  splendid 
reasons.  What  you  say  makes  me  think,  deeply. 
And  yet,  if  you  really  loved  me 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say:  passion  is 
its  own  excuse — but  that  applies  only  to  brutes. 
You  might  cite  cases  where  women  have  given  up  all 
for  their  lovers.  We  know  of  them,  yes!  but  we 
don't  hear  of  the  others,  whose  hearts  have  been 
broken,  who  did  their  duty,  and  said  nothing. 

VETHEUIL 

According  to  that,  then,  your  first  duty  was  not  to 
have  become  my  mistress. 

CLAUDINE 

Our  duty  is  not  to  injure  those  who  have  been  kind 
to  us. 

VETHEUIL 

But  I  have  given  up  everything  for  you!  The  day  I 
first  knew  you,  I  gave  up  my  freedom:  I  settled 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  you.  I  have  completely 
rearranged  my  mode  of  living,  given  up  my  friends, 
without  a  thought  for  myself! 


ACT  III]  LOVERS  99 

CLAUDINE 

I  appreciate  it,  but  you  see  you  were  sacrificing  your- 
self, not  others.  Oh,  if  I  were  alone,  do  you  think  I 
should  care  for  comforts  and  luxury  and  money? 
You  know  very  well  I  should  go  with  you  wherever 
you  liked,  live  on  two  hundred  francs  a  month  in  the 
country,  so  that  I  might  be  with  you  alone — body 
and  soul — because  I  love  you! 

VETHEUIL. 

Is  that  true? 

CLAUDINE 

Oh,  yes !  But  to  do  that  now  would  be  cowardice — 
it's  out  of  the  question.  If  this  life  is  no  longer 
possible,  if  I  make  you  unhappy,  then  you  are  right 
to  leave,  at  once,  and  forget  me.  When  you  return 
we  can  be  friends — if  I  am  still  here. 

VETHEUIL 

No,  Claudine,  I  cannot  forget  you,  and  as  for  being 
friends,  that's  not  reasonable.  Yes,  just  now  I 
wanted  to  go  away.  I  was  quite  determined  before 
I  saw  you,  but  the  moment  you  entered  the  room, 
I  knew  I  could  never  go.  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
in  advance — but  you  know  I  can't  exist  without  you 
— your  voice,  your  presence,  your  caresses — your 
head  on  my  shoulder — I  must  adore  you,  and  keep 
telling  you  how  I  adore  you.  Everything  else,  if 
need  be,  may  remain  as  before,  we  can  continue  with- 
out wronging  anyone — we  must  plan  it  out,  that's 
all.  If  we  are  aware  of  the  danger,  we  have  only  to 
avoid  it.  You  will  be  a  little  less  domineering,  jeal- 
ous, and  I  more  patient  and  forgiving.  You  won't 
be  as  you  were  the  day  before  yesterday — ! 


100  LOVERS  [act  in 

CLAUDINE 

You  were  cruel!  Think  of  not  coming  to  see  me  all 
day! 

VETHEUIL 

This  explanation  was  bound  to  come — now  it's  over. 
Let's  forget  it — we  love,  don't  we? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes! 

VETHEUIL 

That's  the  important  point. 

CLAUDINE 

Then  you're  not  so  much  to  be  pitied? 

VETHEUIL 

No. 

CLAUDINE 

We  have  spent  some  wonderful  hours  together, 
haven't  we? 

VETHEUIL 

We  have! 

CLAUDINE 

Kiss  me. 

VETHEUIL 

Claudine!    Let  mc  look  at  you. 

CLAUDINE 

No,  no,  it's  too  light  in  here !  I've  been  crying !  I'm 
not  at  all  pretty!  {^She  goes  to  the  window,  closes 
the  curtains,  fastening  them  together  with  one  of 
her  hat-pins.  Then  she  comes  back  arid  sits  down) 
Now,  it's  more  mysterious,  and  you  can't  see  my  red 
eyes.  Come  here,  close  to  me,  as  we  used  to  sit,  dear. 
Remember,  you  were  at  my  feet,  your  head  on  my 
knees,  while  we  watched  the  night  falling — we  were 
the  spirits  of  twilight  and  silence. 


ACT  m]  LOVERS  101 

VETHEUIL 

I  adore  jou,  Claudine !    I  adore  you ! 

CLAUDINE 

Wait,  what  am  I  sitting  on? 

VETHEUIL 

Oh,  let  me  take  it  away. 

CLAUDINE 

What  is  it? 

VETHEUIL 

My  valise ! 

l[He  takes  the  valise  which  the  servant  had  placed 
on  the  sofa,  lays  it  on  the  floor,  and  returns  to  Clau- 
dine.    They  embrace. 

THUS  ENDS   THE  THIRD  ACT 


ACT    FOUR 

Pallanza,  on  the  shores  of  Lago  Maggiore:  a  garden 
full  of  magnolias^  on  a  terrace  from  which  the  lake  and 
mountains  can  be  seen  through  a  crystal  blue  atmos- 
phere— all  under  a  slcy  illuminated  by  moon  and  stars. 
Claudine  is  in  deshabille,  Vetheuil  in  traveling  clothes. 

CLAUDINE 

What  time  did  you  tell  them  to  call  for  you? 

VETHEUIL 

Ten. 

CLAUDINE 

So  soon! 

VETHEUIL 

I  must  bo  at  the  Locarno  station   for  the  eleven 
o'clock  train. 

CLAUDINE 

And  your  baggage? 

VETHEUIL 

The  coachman  will  call  at  the  hotel  first. 

CLAUDINE 

Will  the  carriage  come  to  get  you  up  there  at  the 
house? 

VETHEUIL 

No,  I  told  the  coachman  to  come  here,  to  the  garden. 

CLAUDINE 

My  God!    (A  pause.    Then  a  fisherman  on  the  lake 
is  heard  singing  "Vorrei  Morire!") 


ACT  iv]  LOVERS  103 

VETHEUIL 

Listen!  Our  fisherman!  {Trying  to  smile)  He 
knows  you're  here,  he's  singing  to  you ! 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  to  me — I,  too,  should  hke  to  die  on  a  night  like 
this.  Oh,  when  I  think  of  to-morrow,  and  you  away, 
I'll  go  mad.  It's  terrible !  Why  are  you  going  so 
far  away  that  I  can't  even  write  to  you.^*  Why  did 
you  accept  that  position  to  explore  a  land  from 
which  men  never  come  back? 

VETHEUIL 

They  return,  but  not  very  soon.  That  is  just  what 
I  need !  What  both  of  us  wished  for !  We  have  de- 
cided, haven't  we,  that  we  ought  to  separate? 
Haven't  we? 

CLAUDINE 

Yes,  only  when  we  decided  that,  I  was  brave!  To- 
night you  are  leaving,  and  I've — lost  courage. 

VETHEUIL 

My  dearest,  I  must  go.  You  have  no  idea  how  hard 
it  is  to  have  to ! 

CLAUDINE 

Can't  you  stay  to-night,  only  to-night?  Please, 
please — ! 

VETHEUIL 

You  know,  dear,  I  have  stayed  as  long  as  I  could. 
I'm  taking  the  last  train  as  it  is ;  I  shall  get  to  Mar- 
seilles just  in  time  to  catch  the  steamer.     So  you 

see — ? 

CLAUDINE 

No,  I  can't  stand  it !    You  mustn't  go ! 


104  LOVERS  [act  iv 

VETHEUIL 

Now,  now,  Claiidine,  don't  say  that,  don't  make  it 
harder !  If  I  did  stay,  could  we  go  on  living  as  we 
have  in  Paris?  With  the  same  obstacles  to  over- 
come, the  same  scenes,  wearing  us  out?  They'd  be- 
gin again  to-morrow,  we  know  that  only  too  well. 
They  are  the  result  of  the  circumstances  under 
which  we  exist,  under  which  we  first  met.  How  often 
have  we  tried  to  be  happy  in  spite  of  everything! 
We  were  never  able — we  never  could  be  able,  we 
should  end  by  detesting  each  other,  deceiving  each 
other 

CLAUDINE 

No,  no,  no! 

VETHEUIL 

Is  that  sort  of  life  possible?  No,  it  would  be  a  hell, 
it  would  be  degrading,  after  these  weeks  we've  spent 
together  here,  so — alone!  We  have  been  so  happy 
that  it's  impossible  to  be  happier ;  we've  had  a  month 
of  happiness  which  nothing  can  efface—^;; — 

CLAUDINE 

Except  the  thought  of  having  to  separate 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  but  that  thought  merely  puts  a  check  on  our 
spirits,  prevents  our  happiness  from  becoming  inso- 
lent, gives  it  a  tinge  of  melancholy,  like  the  mist  en- 
shrouding the  mountains  in  the  evening,  making  their 
outlines  less  rugged,  turning  their  enormous  masses 
into  something  infinitely  tender. 

CLAUDINE 

How  you  analyze  sensations — how  complex  you  are 
— at  a  moment  like  this  !     It's  funny  I 


ACT  iv]  LOVERS  105 

VETHEUIL, 

Yes,  that's  why  I  understood  you,  the  day  you  told 
me  you  couldn't  leave  your  friend  or  jeopardize 
your  daughter's  future.  If  you  hadn't  told  me  that, 
I  should  have  said:  Let  the  heavens  themselves  fall 
upon  us,  as  they  have  upon  so  many  others !  Well, 
we  have  at  least  belonged  entirely  to  each  other  this 
past  month,  without  the  shadow  of  an  intruder — 
alone  here  by  this  lake  which  harbors  so  many  loves 
like  ours.  We  have  been  able  even  to  cherish  the 
illusion  that  we  were  free ;  we  have  been  lovers,  be- 
cause we  willed  it.  One  month  of  pure  happiness ! 
We  have  had  it,  and  now  we  must  pay  for  it. 

CLAUDINE  j 

Then  it's  over — over? 

VETHEUIL 

Claudine,  come  here,  let  me  tell  you 

CliAUDINE 

What?  What  do  you  want?  Something  reasonable 
again?  Don't  you  feel? 

VETHEUIL, 

Claudine,  that's  not  kind!  If  you  only  knew  how 
broken-hearted  I  am.  I,  too,  have  a  Calvary  to 
mount — only — it  must — it  must  be ! 

CLAUDINE 

Then  I'll  never  see  you  again? 

VETHEUIL 

Of  course  you  will — only,  later,  when  we're  cured. 

CLAUDINE 

Do  you  tliink — ? 

VETHEUIL 

{Forcefully)  Yes,  we  will  be  cured.  We  are  now 
separating  not  because  I  have  deceived  you  or  you 


106  LOVERS  [act  iv 

me,  or  because  we  are  tired  of  each  other ;  there  exist 
none  of  the  usual  deceits  or  lies  between  us  which 
commonly  make  love  a  bitter  thing  and  wound  it: 
we  are  separating  because  there  are  your  friend  and 
your  little  girl  between  us,  because  we  cannot  be 
happy  with  those  dear  ones  between  us.  We  are 
saying  Adieu,  but  in  what  a  marvelously  beautiful 
land! 

CliAUDINE 

You  say  that  as  if  to  a  woman  who  was  going  to 
drown  herself  in  a  beautiful  river ! 

VETHEUIL 

You  don't  understand — in  a  peaceful  land,  then. 
Later,  not  to-morrow  of  course,  but  later,  when  you 
think  of  this  terrace  at  Pallanza,  you  will  see  again 
the  mountains  and  the  lake,  all  these  beautiful  sur- 
roundings, and  when  your  mind  turns  to  our  separa- 
tion, your  sadness  will,  in  spite  of  yourself,  become 
a  part  of  the  peace  and  quiet. 

CLAUDINE 

No !  Don't  Imagine  that !  It's  nice  of  you  to  say  it, 
but  I'm  positive  I  shall  suffer  for  a  long  time,  suffer 
cruelly — always !  I  detest  this  country,  I  hate  it — 
I'm  going  away  at  once !  To-morrow  morning!  Oil, 
if  I  could  only  go  off  somewhere  alone,  and  suffer 
by  myself — !  But  I  am  expected  home — I've  had  my 
vacation — charming ! 

VETHEUIL, 

Now,  Claudine ! 

CLAUDINE 

I'm — too  unhappy !  You  are  going  to  travel  and  see 
new  countries ;  you'll  be  interested,  distracted,  you're 
starting  a  new  life !    You'll  forget  me ! 


ACT  iv]  LOVERS  107 

VETHEUIL 

No — never ! 

CLAUDINE 

Listen  to  me ;  I  want  you  to  promise  one  thing ;  don't 
think  me  absurd 

VETHEUIL, 

Why  should  I? 

CLAUDINE 

You'll  think  it's  foolish? 

VETHEUIL, 

Not  in  the  least. 

CLAUDINE 

Here  it  is,  then :  it's  very  serious.  I  want  you,  every 
evening  at  the  same  hour,  to  look  at  the  same  star 
that  I  do — I  can't  write,  you  know.  So  every  night 
at  ten,  we'll  look  at — oh,  wait  a  moment ! — the  Great 
Bear;  yes,  the  Great  Bear,  that's  the  only  thing  I 
can  recognize.     I  never  could  distinguish  the  others. 

VETHEUIL 

I  promise. 

CLAUDINE 

And  when  you  are  in  that  awful  country,  I'll  think 
of  you  gazing  at  the  same  corner  of  the  sky  and  at 
the  same  time  as  I.    It's  not  much  to  ask — just  that! 

VETHEUIL 

But  when  I'm  in  that  awful  country  as  you  call  it,  it 
will  be  day  for  me  when  it's  night  for  you — we  can't 
see  the  same  stars. 

CLAUDINE 

Why.? 

VETHEUIL 

Because  it's  impossible  to  see  the  same  section  of  the 
sky  from  every  point  of  the  earth's  surface.     Now, 


108  LOVERS  [act  iv 

the  earth,  you  understand — it  would  take  too  long  to 
explain 

CLAUDINE 

Are  you  sure?  Couldn't  we  have  only  this  one  con- 
solation? It  doesn't  seem  right — !  How  alone  I'll 
be !    You  ought  not  to  have  told  me ! 

VETHEUIL 

I  should  have  let  you  believe 

CLAUDINE 

Sh!     {The  tinkle  of  bells  is  heard  in  the  distance) 

VETHEUIL 

The  carriage  is  coming. 

CLAUDINE 

Already!— Oh— God! 

COACHMAN 

(Speaking  in  an  Italian  dialect)  Excellency,  it's  ten 
o'clock.  The  Excellency's  baggage  is  here — carriage 
is  below. 

CLAUDINE 

Tell  him  to  wait  five  minutes ! 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  yes — I'll  come  in  five  minutes 

[The  coachman  disappears.  Claudine  and  Vetheuil 
sit  in  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

VETHEUIL 

It's  got  to  be ! 

CLAUDINE 

Stop,  listen — I  can't — you  mustn't  go!  Please! 
Please!  I'll  do  what  you  say,  I'll  leave  everyone! 
If  I  give  him  up  would  you  stay? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes — but  will  you  give  him  up? 


ACT  iv]  LOVERS  109 

CLAUDINE 

If  you  ask  me  to ! 

VETHEUIL 

You  will?  Are  you  sure?  Do  you  realize  what 
you're  doing?  He  is  your  daughter's  father,  you'll 
break  his  heart,  you  in  whom  he  has  such  blind  faith ! 
I  must  tell  you  these  things,  because  if  you  decide, 
it  must  be  for  always.  You  can't  retrace  your  steps 
— I  shan't  let  you. 

CLAUDINE 

I  should  see  him  and  confess ;  he  is  good,  he  would 
forgive  me — he  might  even  understand.  Shall  I  tell 
him  we  love  and  that  we  must  not  be  separated? 

VETHEUIL 

See?  You  can't. — Go  to  him?  What  an  idea! 
There's  not  a  man  living  who  would  understand 
these  things  !    No,  I  must  go. 

COACHMAN 

(Appearing  again)  Excellency,  it's  ten-fifteen, 
we've  just  got  time  to  catch  the  eleven  o'clock  at 
Locarno.     Got  steep  grades  to  climb. 

VETHEUIL 

(To  the  coachman)    Good!    I'm  coming  directly. 

CLAUDINE 

What  does  he  say? 

VETHEUIL 

That  it's  ten-fifteen,  and  I  barely  have  time  to  catch 
the  eleven  o'clock  train  at  Locarno. 

CLAUDINE 

Well — good-by!  {They  hiss,  and  cling  for  a  time 
to  each  other)  Let  me  look  at  you,  Georges !  It 
is  as  if  you  were  dying.  Go,  go !  Don't  say  any- 
thing. 


110  LOVERS  [act  IV 

[She  falls  on  a  bench,  her  head  in  her  hands,  and 
sobs.  Vetheuil  leaves.  The  bells  of  the  carriage 
tinkle  more  and  more  faintly,  and  then  are  no  longer 
heard. 

AND  THUS  ENDS  THE  FOURTH  ACT 


FIFTH   ACT 

The  large  drawing-room  in  Claudine's  former  liome, 
which  now  belongs  to  Henriette  J  amine. 

To-night  is  Henriette's  house-warming ;  lights,  flow- 
ers, gypsies,  and  small  supper  tables  fill  the  room.  At 
each  table  three  or  four  guests  are  seated. 

As  the  curtain  rises  all  the  guests  are  silently  listen- 
ing to  Boldi,  the  leader  of  the  gypsy  orchestra,  as  he 
plays  to  Henriette. 

MADAME   SORBIER 

{As  soon  as  Boldi  has  ended)  Schlinder,  please  tell 
Boldi  to  come  here ;  I  want  to  hear  that  lovely  piece 
again  that  we  heard  so  often  this  Fall  at  Vienna — 
remember  ? 

SCHLINDER 

Of  course,  dear.  {Calling)  Boldi!  Will  you  come 
here  a  moment  and  play  Madame  that  love  song — ? 
[Boldi  comes  to  the  table  where  Schlinder  is  seated 
and  plays  the  requested  number  to  Madame  Sorbier. 
As  he  ends: 

PRUNIER 

Rather  melancholy,  don't  you  think? 

MADAME    JAMINE 

No,  I  think  it's  very  pretty. 

PRUNIER 

Quite  sad,  and  I  don't  like  sad  music. 


112  LOVERS  [act  v 

MADAME    JAMINE 

You'd  like  "Allumc !  Allumc !"  all  the  time,  wouldn't 
you? 

PBUNIER 

There's  a  fine  dancing  rhythm  to  that,  at  least ! 

EAVIER 

Galloping,  even. 

MADAME    JAMINE 

Well,  I  love  melancholy  music,  the  kind  that  makes 
you  dreamy.  There  are  certain  tunes  I'd  like  played 
to  me — when  some  one's  whispering  sweet  things ! 

PRUNIER 

Why  do  you  look  at  Ravier  when  you  say  that? 

EAVIER 

Don't  take  offense,  Prunier,  and  don't  spoil  a  de- 
lightful soiree! 

PRUNIER 

You're  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  a  saint  with  all 
your  nonsense !  As  if  music  had  anything  to  do  with 
those  things ! 

MADAME    JAMINE 

I'm  sure  Ravier  understands  what  I  mean. 

RAVIER 

Quite  right,  Madame:  what  a  sweet  confidential 
friend  music  is !  You  know,  Massenet  has  just  writ- 
ten music  to  a  poem  of  Verlaine's.  The  song  was  so 
soul-stirring  that  it's  been  censored:  now  we  have 
only  the  words. 

PRUNIER 

Nonsense ! 

EAVIER 

Fact ! 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  113 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

{At  another  table)    What  are  we  waiting  for? 

SAMBRE 

Something — important. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

A  pause  of  embarrassment 

SAMBRE 

After  sparkling  dialogue  and  merry  laughter  there 
follows  painful  silence ! 

MADAME   SORRIER 

Who  will  propose  a  toast  to  our  charming  hostess? 

SCHLINDER 

According  to  the  old  French  family  custom. 

MADAME   SORBIER 

That's  Ravier's  business! 

SCHLINDER 

Now  listen  to  him  say  that  it  comes  as  a  complete 
surprise !  All  evening  he's  been  preoccupied  like  a 
man  repeating  an  improvised  speech  by  heart ! 

MADAME    SORBIER 

What  did  I  tell  you?     There  he  is  getting  up! 

RAVIER 

{Standing  on  a  chair)  Mesdames — Messieurs:  it  is 
without  the  slightest  emotion  that  I  take  the 
floor 


SAMBRE 

So  you  say ! 

EAVIER 

I  assure  you  I  am  not  the  least  bit  nervous. 

SCHLINDER 

Liar! 


m 

114  LOVERS  [act  v 

EAVIER 

What  do  I  risk?  I  am  positive  that  whatever  I  may 
say  you  will  all  howl  at  me — so  what  would  be  the 
use  in  troubling  my  gray  matter  in  order  to  search 
out  new  formulas?  I  therefore  propose  that  we 
drink  to  the  health  of  our  hosts:  first  to  Madame 
Henriette  Jamine,  our  entrancing  Amphitryon, 
whose  beauty  it  would  be  superfluous  to  dilate  upon, 
and  also  to  the  health  of  Ernest  Prunicr  (ironi- 
cally), the  greatest  cement  dealer  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  knowing. 

ALL 

Bravo !     Bravo ! 

RAVIER 

Gentlemen,  does  not  this  couple  offer  us  an  admirable 
object  lesson?  To  such  a  union,  to  so  busy  an  ex- 
istence, to  such  industrious  and  unceasing  pursuits 
(turning  to  Henriette)  allow  me,  Madame,  to  drink, 
and  (turning  to  Prunier)  Monsieur,  to  Commerce 
and  Industry ! 

ALL 

Bravo !     Bravo ! 

\_The  conversation  becomes  general.  WJiile  the  ta- 
bles are  being  taken  out,  the  guests  form  into  little 
groups.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  stand  Claudine 
and  Ruyseux. 

RUYSEUX 

Well,  dear,  what  have  you  to  say  to  all  tliis? 

CLAUDINE 

It's  been  so  long  since  I've  seen  anything  of  the  sort 
that  I'm  a  little  bewildered.  These  people  all  seem 
a  trifle  mad.  Their  gayety  isn't  at  all  amusing.  I 
suppose  they  don't  find  me  very  amusing,  either? 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  115 

RUYSEUX 

You  know  very  well  you  are  the  prettiest  woman 
here! 

CLAUDINE 

Oh,  oh! 

BUYSEUX 

And  the  most  loved. 

CLAUDINE 

I  believe  that. 

RUYSEUX 

Well?  We're  no  longer  in  "society" — we're  not 
Parisians. 

CLAUDINE 

Thank  God! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

{In  another  corner,  with  Ravier,  Madame  Gregeois, 
etc.)     Very  charming  little  toast  that  was! 

PRUNIER 

I  was  really  touched. 

EAVIER 

What  I  said  was  no  more  than  the  truth. 

MADAME  SORRIER 

No  indeed ! — Lovely  supper^ — wc  had  a  superb  even- 
ing. You've  arranged  this  place  very  tastefully — 
Yes,  charming  house-warming. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

This  is  only  a  beginning:  I'm  going  to  have  any 
number  of  parties  this  winter. 

MADAME  GREGEOIS 

It'll  be  gayer  than  it  was  with  the  former  tenant. 


116  LOVERS  [act  V 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Yes — I  don't  intend  to  live  alone  and  have  no  com- 
pany, the  way  Claudine  Rozay  did.  I'll  have  big 
dinners,  masked  suppers 

KAVIER 

Costumes  with  tails  to  them ! 

MADAME  JAMINE 

You  silly!  It'll  be  too  gay  for  anything,  won't  it, 
Ernest? 

PRUNIEB 

Yes,  and  we  must  have  those  little  English  girls,  the 
Llewellyn  sisters. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

No,  no,  not  the  Llewellyn  sisters.  They  monopolize 
all  the  men — and  I  don't  think  their  influence  over 
you  is  good.  They  make  you  sick ! — And  then  we 
must  present  little  comedies,  too. 

RAVIER 

Do  you  know  what  you  ought  to  do  ?    Have  a  Revue. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Who  will  run  it.'' 

RAVIER 

I. 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Who  will  act  in  it? 

ALL 

We. 

RAVIER 

Would  you  consent  to  take  part? 

MADAME   GREGEOIS 

Consent?  We  would  intrigue  each  other  to  death  to 
get  the  best  roles ! 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  117 

MADAME  JAMINE 

I  have  some  actor  friends:    Raymonde  Percy,  who 
played  in  The  Seven  of  Spades 

MADAME  SORBIER 

What  did  she  do  in  The  Seven  of  Spades? 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Ruined  it! 

SAMBRE 

We  should  certainly  have  this  Revue. 

MADAME   SORBIER 

What  shall  I  be? 

RAVIER 

Exposition  of  1900,  and  you,  Madame  Gregcois,  will 
be  the  Godmother 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Now  that  everything  is  decided,  we  can  dance. 
[^The  gypsies  play;  couples  begin  to  whirl  about. 

KAVIER 

{To  Henriette)    I  adore  you! 

MADAME   JAMINE 

Shh!     Tell  me  that  to-morrow. — Come  at  five! 

RAVIER 

Here.'' 

MADAME   JAMINE 

Yes,  here. 

RAVIER 

Our  own  house-warming.'' 

MADAME  JAMINE 

Yes. 

RAVIER 

Nice .'' 


118  LOVERS  [act  v 

MADAME   JAMrNE 

Not  bad ! 
[^Enter  Gauderic. 

GAUDERIC 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame,  but  I  must  go.  Before 
I  leave,  however,  I  should  like  to  have  a  few  details 
for  my  article — that  is,  if  you  would  care  to  have 
me  mention  your  soiree. 

MADAME   JAMINE 

By  all  means,  Monsieur,  but  I  really  don't  know 
what  to  say.  Here  is  Monsieur  Ravier,  he  can  tell 
you  everything  much  better  than  I  could:  he's  used 
to  It!    Aren't  you,  Ravier.'' 

RAVIEB, 

I  am. 

MADAME   JAMINE 

Let  me  introduce  you:  Monsieur  Ravier,  Monsieur 
Gauderic. 

RAVIER 

Charmed. 

GAUDERIC 

Doubtless  you  don't  know  me  under  my  own  name :  in 
Le  Trivelin  I  write  as  Feu  Follet. 

RAVIER 

Oh,  I  know  Feu  Follet. 

MADAME   JAMINE 

What  docs  It  mean? 

GAUDERIC 

It  means  Will-o'-the-wisp. 

MADAME   JAMINE 

(Looking  at  him  and  laughing,  for  Gauderic  is 
homely  and  ordinary  looking)  Hal  Ha!  Will-o'- 
the  Wisp! 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  119 

BAVIER 

Monsieur,  if  I  can  be  of  any  assistance — ? 

GAUDERIC 

You  know,  Monsieur,  what  I  would  like.  Usually  the 
host  sends  a  note  telling  of  the  soiree.  The  editor 
inserts  it,  sometimes  gratis,  sometimes  not ;  it  is  or- 
dinarily very  insipid  and  formal — the  literature  of 
society.  But  on  Le  Trivelin  we  go  about  it  far  dif- 
ferently: I  like  to  write  the  articles  myself,  live  in 
the  atmosphere  for  a  few  moments,  in  order  to  seize 
the  floating  nuances,  the — personal,  subtle  air  of  the 
occasion.  I  do  not  recoil  even  before  the  indiscreet. 
Now  you  belong  to  the  house  here,  do  you  not.f^ 

RAVIER 

I'll  tell  you  what  to  say:  that  Madame  Henriette 
Jamine  gave  a  delightful  house-warming  in  her 
charmingly  arranged  little  apartment,  wliich  Mon- 
sieur Ernest  Prunier  has  just  given  her. 

GAUDERIC 

Ah,  Prunier  bought  the  apartment !  Prunier,  the 
cement  manufacturer  .f* 

RAVIER 

Yes :  little  presents  cement  their  friendship.  There's 
a  clever  line  for  your  article. 

GAUDERIC 

Didn't  this  place  belong  formerly  to  Claudine  Ro- 
zay.? 

RAVIER 

Yes. 

GAUDERIC 

Why  did  she  sell  it?  Hard  pressed.''  Financial  em- 
barrassments? 


120  LOVERS  [act  v 

RAVIER 

Oh,  no,  slie  sold  it  because  slie  didn't  want  it  any 
longer :  she  decided  to  live  in  the  country. 

GAUDERIC 

Any  celebrities  here?  Could  you  give  me  •some 
names  ? 

RAVIER 

Of  what  sort? 

GAUDERIC 

Any  sort — makes  no  difference. 

RAVIER 

But  you  said  celebrities.  I  mean  what  rank,  what 
walks  of  life? 

GAUDERIC 

Politics,  finance,  art. 

RAVIER 

Well,  there's  Schlinder.  (Gauderic  writes  on  his 
cuff)  Ah,  3'ou  write  on  your  cuff — like  Monsieur  de 
Buff  on ! 

GAUDERIC 

Yes :  documentary  cuffs. 

RAVIER 

Schlinder,  Prefect  of  Police — retired  two  years  ago ; 
Count  de  Ruyscux,  president  of  the  Royalist  com- 
mittees; Vethcuil,  just  returned  from  Indo-China, 
where  he  was  a  member  of  the  Renaud  Expedition — 
then  some  other  gentlemen  of  minor  importance. 

GAUDERIC 

And  the  ladies?    Can  you  give  me  some  names? 

RAVIER 

The  ladies  arc  in  mortal  terror  of  publicity ;  they 
don't  like  to  see  their  names  in  newspapers 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  121 

GAUDEEIC 

But  they 

RAVIER 

They  are  ladies  of  a  very  particular  species — hm ! — 
who  are  supported — and  whose  children  are  as  well 
brought  up  as  those  of  the  most  correct  families. 
They  make  use  of  every  charm  known  to  femininity 
to  prevent  their  being  spoken  of.  There  lies  the 
difference  between  them  and  women  of  the  streets. 

GAUDERIC 

And  duchesses ! — I  asked  that  because  a  little  ad- 
vertisement can  do  no  harm. 

RAVIER 

Absurd!  You  and  I  know  very  well — no  one  is  ever 
deceived.  When  the  paper  speaks  of  the  beautiful 
Madame  Fromage,  who  sang  the  Jewel  Song  from 
Faust  like  an  angel,  and  Monsieur  Le  Pinson,  who 
acted  most  successfully  in  his  own  peculiar  style — ! 

GAUDERIC 

Yes,  we  make  a  living  oflP  their  snobbishness. 

RAVIER 

It's  too  absurd ! 

GAUDERIC 

Many  thanks.  Monsieur,  for  your  kindness. 

RAVIER 

Not  at  all,  I'm  only  too  happy  to  be  able  to  help 
you. — Oh,  by  the  way,  you  won't  forget  me  in  the 
little  article,  will  you?     Here's  my  card — I  managed 

that  last  Revue  at  the  club 

[^Thei/  go  out.    Enter  Claudine  and  VeiJieuil. 

CLAUDINE 

We  shan't  be  disturbed  here. — So,  you've  come  back 
to  Paris  at  last.f^ 


122  LOVERS  "  [act  v       p 

. i 

1 

VETHEUIL 

Only  last  week. 

CLAUDIXE 

And  you've  been  away  eighteen  months !  Were  you 
traveling  all  the  time? 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  I  helped  explore  marvelous  and  terrible  lands. 
I  was  burned  by  the  sun,  frozen  by  the  cold,  nearly 
died  of  hunger  and  thirst,  and  made  my  way  over 
twelve  hundred  leagues  of  desert. 

CLAUDINE 

Twelve  hundred  leagues ! — Oh,  sit  down ! — And  what 
chance  brings  you  here  to-day? 

VETHEUIL 

No  chance.  My  first  thought  on  arriving  in  Paris 
was  to  come  and  see  you — but  I  didn't  dare. 

CLAUDINE 

Why?    You  might  have  done  it — now! 

VETHEUIL 

I  might — but  still  I  was  afraid.  I  went  to  see  little 
Jamine.  I  heard  she  lived  here,  that  she'd  bought 
your  old  apartment.  You  can  imagine  what  a  turn 
that  gave  me!  I  thought  something  had  happened 
to  you,  so  I  went  at  once  to  Henriette ;  she  rattled 
off  any  number  of  tales — most  of  which  I  didn't  un- 
derstand— I  did,  however,  make  out  that  she  was 
giving  a  house-warming  to  which  you  would  natu- 
rally be  asked,  and  I  thought  this  a  good  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  you. 

CLAUDINE 

She  didn't  tell  me  a  word  about  you! 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  123 

VETHEUIL 

She  was  afraid  that  if  jou  knew  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  have  come. 

CLAUDINE 

Why? 

VETHEUIIi 

I  don't  know. 

CXAUDINE 

{Looking  steadfastly  at  him)  You've  aged  a  little 
— Why,  here's  quite  a  crop  of  gray  hairs 

VETHEUIL, 

I  have  suffered  a  great  deal:  fatigue,  hunger,  every- 
thing imaginable.  The  greatest  suffering  was  due 
to  you! 

CLAUDINE 

Is  that  true? 

VETHEUIL, 

Yes !  You  were  deeply  rooted  in  my  heart.  It  was 
a  terrible  wrench  to  leave 

CLAUmNE 

Then  you  did  thinjc  of  me? 

VETHEUIL 

A  great  deal. — But  you  haven't  changed. 

CLAUDINE 

It's  very  nice  of  you  to  say  it.  I  have  changed: 
I,  too,  have  some  gray  hairs,  only — I  dye  them  a 
little.  I'd  rather  tell  you,  so  that  you  may  see  I 
have  had  my  share  of  suffering. 

VETHEUIL 

Dear  Claudine!    {A  pause) 

CLAUDINE 

Do  you  remember,  three  years  ago,  when  we  sat  and 
talked  in  this  same  corner  for  the  first  time,  and  I 


124  LOVERS  [act  v 

Avas  so  afraid  of  your — adventure? — Do  you?  See 
how  everything  I  predicted  has  come  true.  But  we 
wanted  it  to  happen ! 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  we  did,  yet  there  was  something  else  which  drew 
us  together,  and  we  may  well  say  like  children  who 
are  scolded :  "It's  not  our  fault !"  In  most  cases 
they  are  right,  it  is  not  their  fault  if  they  were  born 
gluttonous,  or  naughty,  or  lazy;  nor  is  it  our  fault 
if  we  were  born  lovers.  There  are  certain  fatal 
forces  which  drive  human  beings  into  each  other's 
arms — the  law  of  Fate  is  as  old  as  the  world.  Only, 
the  moralists  can't  say  that,  because  humanity  would 
take  fright. 

CLATTDINE 

Just  as  when  there  is  an  epidemic  in  the  city  the 
doctors  must  hide  the  truth.  We  are  all  too  weak, 
we  are  not  sufficiently  armed  for  the  battles  of  life. 

VETHEUIL 

Doubtless.  It's  all  ver}'  well  to  have  an  exact  knowl- 
edge of  what  is  right  and  fitting,  but  nature  endows 
creatures  like  us  with  sensuality  and  sensibility,  and 
we  are  as  a  consequence  capable  of  committing  the 
worst  sort  of  follies.     It  is  a  continual  struggle. 

CLAITDINE 

Yes,  but  xve  have  come  out  of  the  struggle  victorious. 
(Smiling)  We  come  home  like  victors  who  have  lost 
legs  and  arms. 

VETHEUIL, 

(Smiling)     There  is  something  else  lacking,  too! 

CLAUDINE 

Oh!  We  are  not  wounded  now,  we're  completely 
cured!     We  were  as  unhappy  as  two  human  beings 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  125 

could  be.  Dear  Georges,  do  you  remember  when  we 
said  good-bj  at  Pallanza — that  sky  sprinkled  with 
stars,  the  mountains  in  a  shroud  of  mist — and  our 
friend  the  fisherman  singing  "Vorrei  Morire"? 

VETHEUIL 

He  knew  we  were  listening — the  old — ! 

CLAUDINE 

And  that  awful  nasal  tenor  of  his !  I've  sung  the 
song  many  times  since,  the  dear  vulgar  old  tune! 
You  were  right  then,  everything  turned  out  exactly 
as  you  said  it  would.  That  night  we  separated  was 
so  beautiful  that  my  suffering  became  calm  and 
peaceful.  But  it  didn't  happen  all  of  a  sudden — no ! 
I  used  to  cry  myself  sick,  night  after  night — I  was 
tired  of  everything! 

VETHEUIL 

My  dear!    But  what  did  they  say  to  you? 

CLAUDINE 

I  gave  vague  reasons,  foolish  ones,  or  else  none  at 
all — they  were  satisfied.  They  were  so  good  and 
affectionate,  too  !     {A  pause)     He  never  suspected. 

VETHEUIL 

I'm  glad  of  that ! 

CLAUDINE 

But  Dcnise !  She  understood  as  much  as  her  little 
mind  would  carry.  She  guessed  that  it  was  because 
of  you  I  suffered,  that  you  were  the  cause  of  my 
tears.  Do  you  know  what  she  did  to  that  big  photo- 
graph of  yours  you  gave  me?  She  scratched  the 
eyes  out! 

VETHEUIL 

She's  very  advanced  for  her  age ! 


126  L0VP:RS  [act  V 

CLAUDINE 

She  would  have  done  the  same  to  you  in  person,  if 
she  had  been  able. 

VETHEUIL 

She's  a  woman  already. 

CLAUDINE 

You  have  no  reason  to  complain! 

VETHEUIL 

I  was  only  joking. 

CLAUDINE 

And  now  what  are  you  going  to  do  here  in  Paris.'' 
You  will  be  very  much  in  demand — feted  and  asked 
everywhere.  Think  of  it,  an  explorer !  The  young 
ladies  will  want  to  know  how  they  make  love  in  the 
desert 

VETHEUIL 

I  shan't  go  to  receptions  and  all  that.  You  see, 
when  a  man  has  lived  eighteen  months  as  I  have,  this 
Parisian  life  is  out  of  the  question.  Just  now  I  was 
watching  all  those  people  in  there — odious,  hateful 
creatures ! — and  to  listen  to  their  conversation ! 
Grotesque  pygmies !  What  ridiculous  dolls  they  are, 
men  and  women  alike !     They  don't  live — the  way  we 

did  on  that  expedition Ah,  what  character  and 

energy  those  men  had !  When  you  come  to  know 
them,  you  try  to  become  like  them.  No,  I'm  going 
away  again,  to  help  colonize. 

CLAUDINE 

You're  right,  but  it  won't  be  very  pleasant  for  you 
to  be  out  there  all  alone  .^ 

VETHEUIL 

{Rather  nervously)  I  shan't  be  all  alone:  I  am  go- 
ing to  marry — the  sister  of  one  of  my  companions. 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  127 

CLAUDINE 

What?  Why,  you've  hardly  been  back  a  week! 
You've  made  rather  a  hasty  decision! 

VETHEUIL 

I've  known  her  for  over  a  month.  When  we  were  on 
our  way  home  to  France,  she  joined  us  at  Saigon, 
and  we  came  back  together  on  the  same  steamer. 

CLAUDINE 

Is  she  pretty? 

VETHEUIL 

Not  so  pretty  as  you. 

CLAUDINE 

Don't  say  that;  in  a  few  weeks  you'll  think  her  the 
prettiest  of  women.  You  must  have  a  photograph 
of  her  with  you? 

VETHEUIL 

(Weakly)     I  have. 

CLAUDINE 

Then  show  it  to  me.  {He  shows  her  the  photograph) 
You  are  right:  she's  not  pretty,  but  she  looks  sweet 
and  energetic.  You  see,  dear,  I  don't  feel  at  all 
jealous  when  I  see  this  picture,  and  if  ever  I  meet 
the  original,  I  shall  kiss  her  with  all  my  heart. 

VETHEUIL 

How  good  you  are ! 

CLAUDINE 

Life  is  funny !  When  I  think  how  for  months  I  did 
nothing  but  cry  and  think  of  you — !  If  I  saw  some 
one  in  the  street  who  resembled  you,  my  blood  all 
rushed  to  my  heart,  I  turned  pale,  I  had  to  support 
myself  to  keep  from  falling — and  now  here  you  are 


128  LOVERS  [act  v 

telling  me  jou  are  about  to  marry !  I  have  perfect 
control  over  myself;  I  am  glad  that  I  can  give  you 
my  hand  in  perfect  loyalty  and  friendship  and  say  I 
am  truly  happy ! 

VETHEUIL 

You've  always  been  adorable! 

CLAUDINE 

Well,  we're  cured,  that's  all 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  it  was  inevitable — and  it  was  good,  because  we 
separated  like  loyal  friends.  It  was  terrible,  the 
separation  was  bitter,  but  as  the  surgeons  say,  it  was 
a  clean  wound.  There  was  no  danger  of  poisoning 
— hatred,  that  is,  revenge,  anger,  the  whole  base  pro- 
cession of  lies — ! 

CLAUDINE 

It  was  a  real  duty,  and  that's  a  great  consolation — 
the  only  consolation,  I  think.  {A  pause)  Well,  I, 
too,  am  going  to  be  married. 

VETHEUIL 

You  are.'' 

CLAUDINE 

Yes !  A  great  many  things  have  hai^pcned  since  you 
left. 

VETHEUIL 

I  can  well  imagine! 

CLAUDINE 

The  Countess  de  Ruyseux  ran  away  with  an  officer  a 
few  weeks  ago. 

VETHEUIL 

No.? 


ACT  v]  LOVERS  129 

CLAUDINE 

True.  Now  Ruyseux  considers  himself  free.  He's 
secured  a  divorce  and  asked  me  to  become  his  wife. 
At  first  I  refused,  but  later  I  accepted.  We're  going 
to  live  in  the  country,  on  our  estate,  far  from  the 
city.  We'll  not  return  to  Paris  until  Denise  is 
eighteen. 

VETHEUIL 

Well,  it's  a  pretty  play :  ends  with  two  marriages ! 

CliAUDINE 

Yes,  but  shall  we  be  happy  for  ever  after? 

VETHEUIL 

That's  another  play.  Yet — since  we  are  going  to 
live  on  the  prairies  and  in  the  woods,  out  with  peace- 
ful and  wise  old  nature — yes,  we  shall  be  happy. 
Ah,  if  we  remained  here,  in  this  city  of  turmoil  and 
evil,  we,  playthings  of  passion  that  we  are,  should 
probably  be  tempted  into  some  last  adventure  before 
the  flame  finally  died  down.  Toward  forty,  you 
would  fall  in  love  with  a  youth  who  would  cause  you 
great  suffering  and  break  your  heart 

CLAUDINE 

Oh,  please ! 

VETHEUIL 

And  I,  toward  fifty,  might  fall  in  love  with  some 
child  who  would  lead  me  a  merry  chase  and  take  me 
to  new  lands  again ! 

CLAUDINE 

We  have  seen  enough ! 

VETHEUIL 

Yes,  when  one  has  lived,  and  observed,  he  arrives  at 
a  true  philosophy  of  life,  and  says  that  at  the  bot- 


130  LOVERS  [act  v 

torn  of  it  all,  happiness,  or  at  least  what  seems  most 

closely  to  resemble  it 

[At  this  moment,  interrupting  VetJieuil  in  the  midst 
of  his  sentence,  a  "Farandole,^'  danced  madly  hy  a 
number  of  couples,  sweeps  into  the  room,  and  in  its 
whirlwind  wake  carries  off  Claudine  and  Vctheuil. 

and  thus  ends  the  fifth  act 

[end] 


THE    FREE   WOMAN 

( L' Affranchie  ) 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 

1898 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED 


Roger  Dembrun 
Pierre  Letang 

LiSTEIi 

Damornay 

Cherange 

A  Servant 

Antonia  De  Moldere 

Juliette 


Madame  Rolleboise 
Madame  Sinnglott 
Madame  Danglejais 
Madame  Egreth 
Clemence 

Mademoiselle  Cendrier 
Rosalie 


THE  FREE  WOMAN 


FIRST    ACT 

The  scene  is  laid  at  Venice,  in  a  small  palace  which 
has  been  rented  by  Madame  de  Moldere,  on  the  Grand 
Canal  opposite  the  Da  Mula  Palace. 

It  is  a  May  night:  half  past  eight  o^clock. 

Near  one  of  the  windows  opening  upon  the  Canal  is 
a  small  round  table  with  places  for  five.  It  is  covered 
with  elegant  linen,  flowers,  candles,  and  so  forth. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Antonia  de  Moldere,  Roger, 
Pierre,  List  el,  and  Juliette  are  seated  round  the  table. 
The  dinner  is  nearly  over;  the  guests  are  eating  dessert. 
There  are  fruits  on  the  table. 

I.ISTEL. 

These   strawberries   are   excellent;   I  haven't   eaten 
such  delicious  ones  since  my  First  Communion. 

ANTONIA 

Surely    that's    an    exaggeration !      But    really    the 
strawberries  are  very  good  here. 

LISTEL 

Well,   in  Italy,  you   run  very  little   risk  of  being 
spoiled  in  the  matter  of  eating. 

JULIETTE 

We  don't  come  to  Italy  to  eat. 


134  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

ANTONIA 

We  come  to  love. 

LISTET. 

All  the  more  reason:  you  must  cat.  But  the  best  of 
all  is  to  be  in  your  own  apartment.  Now  you  did 
the  wisest  and  most  practical  thing  of  all,  when  you 
decided  to  spend  some  time  in  Venice:  rent  a  palace 
or  an  apartment  in  a  palace  on  the  Grand  Canal. 
Do  you  mind  if  I  ask  how  much  you  are  paying  here.? 

ANTONIA 

Three  hundred  francs  a  month. 

LISTEL 

And  you  have  the  piano? 

ANTONIA 

Naturally. 

JULIETTE 

Oh,  have  you  a  piano,  Antonia?    Where  is  it.? 

PIERRE 

Not  the  instrument,  dear — in  Italian,  piano  means 
story,  too. 

JULIETTE 

Oh,  I  see ;  I  didn't  know  that. 

LISTEL 

And  you  have  the  entire  ground  floor,  or  Canal  floor, 
to  be  more  exact.? 

ANTONIA 

Yes,  the  whole  ground  floor. 

LISTEL 

And  you  pay  three  hundred  francs  a  month?  That's 
not  expensive,  not  at  all  expensive. 

ANTONIA 

But  living  is  not  expensive  at  Venice — it  costs  next 
to  nothing.    What  costs  is  hotel  life. 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  135 

LISTEL 

Yes,  in  Italy  all  the  English  hotels  are  run  by  the 
Swiss.  They  form  a  syndicate  to  fleece  the  tourists. 
Why,  take  Switzerland,  for  instance:  the  whole 
country  is  nothing  but  a  real  estate  office,  the  Louvre 
of  Nature — the  price  is  on  every  glacier,  and  every 
abyss  is  marked  in  plain  figures. 

JULIETTE 

But  the  gondolas  in  Venice  are  very  cheap.  It's 
truly  touching.  For  one  hour  of  enchantment  you 
pay  a  franc — that's  not  ruinous.  But  Pierre,  who  is 
usually  very  generous,  is  horridly  stingy  with  the 
gondoliers.  Every  time  we  come  to  settle  with  them, 
he  makes  the  most  ridiculous  scenes. 

ANTONIA 

Is  that  so,  Pierre.'^ 

PIERRE 

Nothing  of  the  kind.    Don't  listen  to  her ! 

JULIETTE 

Yes,  yes.      In  every   other  way  you  are  lovely — I 
don't  deny  that — but  with  the  gondoliers  you  are 
simply  stingy.     So  there — I'll  make  you  ashamed  be- 
fore all  these  people. 
[^Laughter. 

ANTONIA 

It's  very  wrong  of  you. 

[Coffee  has  meanwhile  been  served  at  another  table. 

Antonia  gives  the  signal  to  rise. 

LISTEL 

Still — three  hundred  francs — very  good !  How  many 
rooms  have  you? 

ANTONIA 

I  have  a  little  kitchen. 


136  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

LISTEIi 

Cucina. 

ANTONIA 

One  charming  bedroom,  and  then  this  that  I  use  as 
a  drawing-  and  dining-room.  I  dine  late  usually, 
have  the  table  placed  next  to  this  window  and  watch 
the  gondolas  pass. 

LISTEL. 

As  you  empty  your  glass. 

ANTONIA 

Exactly.     Do  you  take  coffee.'' 

LISTEL 

If  you  please.     (Juliette  offers  him  sugar) 

ANTONIA 

And  you,  Pierre.'^ 

PIERRE 

Delighted. 

JULIETTE 

Isn't  it  lovely  to  hear  the  gondolas  gliding  past, 
and  the  cry  of  the  gondoliers ! 

LISTEL 

There's  nothing  remarkable,  it  seems  to  me,  in  that 
cry — I  think  it's  overdone — rather  hideous. 

JULIETTE 

{Coldly)     Undoubtedly! 

LISTEL 

And  the  sound  of  the  gondolas — nothing  at  all,  yet 
it's  very  trying.  They  say  Venice  is  the  city  of 
silence — but  you  can't  sleep — especially  this  time  of 
the  season.  And  the  lovers — turning  night  into  day. 
Can't  close  an  eye  until  nearly  daylight.  If  one  were 
sick  I  presume  he  would  have  to  put  straw  under 
his  windows  along  the  Grand  Canal! 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  137 

ROGER 

(Who  has  hitherto  been  a  sUent  listener)  How 
wearisome  you  must  find  jour  cleverness ! 

LISTEL 

In  any  event,  Monsieur,  you  are  spared  the  fatigue ! 

ROGER 

Of  course.     (He  disappears  with  Juliette) 
PIERRE  (to  Listel) 

My  dear  Monsieur,  you  will  make  yourself  very  un- 
popular with  the  ladies  if  you  continue  criticising 
Venice.     (He  follows  after  Juliette  and  Roger) 

LISTEL 

Is  it  my  fault  if  I  have  an  original  way  of  looking  at 
things.'*  (To  Antonia)  You  have  been  here 
since ? 

ANTONIA 

For  the  past  two  weeks — two  weeks,  yes!    And  you? 

LISTEL 

I  arrived  yesterday — I  leave  to-morrow. 

ANTONIA 

Then  it  was  pure  coincidence  that  we  saw  you. 
You're  not  staying  very  long. 

LISTEL 

Venice  disgusts  me. 

ANTONIA 

Disgusts  you.f* 

LISTEL 

Why,  yes.  (A  pause)  Tell  me,  who  is  that  dis- 
agreeable man  who  didn't  talk  and  can't  understand 
a  joke? 

ANTONIA 

A  friend  I  met  here — charmino-  fellow. 


138  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

I.ISTEI, 

Only — a  friend? 

ANTONIA 

Yes. 

LISTED 

Are  you  sure? 

ANTONIA 

Quite  sure. 

LISTEL 

Ah.  {A  pause)  I  was  looking  at  you  during  din- 
ner: you  are  very  pretty  this  evening — you  are 
always,  but  to-night  your  eyes  have  something  out 
of  the  ordinary 

ANTONIA 

Really? 

LISTEL 

Yes — an  eclat — I  can't  just  say — you — you  seem 
like  a  woman  who  is  deeply  loved. 

ANTONIA 

I  am — by  you.  You  tell  me  that,  and  you  keep 
writing  it. 

LISTEL 

Yes,  but  it  is  not  I  who  lend  3^our  eyes  that  particu- 
lar expression.  I  don't  flatter  myself.  I  have  loved 
you  for  six  years,  ever  since  I  first  met  you.  You 
have  never  given  me  definite  proofs,  and  you  never 
will,  and  yet  I  shall  continue  to  make  love  to  you. 
It's  rather  absurd — but — that's  the  way  it  is. 

ANTONIA 

You're  not  very  unhappy. 

LISTEL 

Of  course — of  course — What  does  this  taciturn  and 
disagreeable  gentleman  do? 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  139 

ANTONIA 

Writes — books. 

LISTEL 

Humorous? 

ANTONIA 

Oh  no. 

lilSTEL 

I'm  surprised.     What's  his  name? 

ANTONIA 

Roger  Dembrun. 

LISTEL, 

?    ?    ?    ?    ? 
ANTONIA 

You  couldn't  possibly  have  heard  of  him:  he  writes 
on  philosophical  questions,  and  art.  It  doesn't  in- 
terest  

LISTEL 

Fools.     Of  course  I  haven't  heard  of  him ! 

ANTONIA 

No :  people  m  society.  My  dear  Listel,  you  are  very 
spirituel  and  very  amusing,  but  there  are  certain 
things  that  society  never  reads.  That's  what  I  was 
going  to  say. 

LISTEL 

He's  a  symbolist,  then. 

ANTONIA 

You're  ridiculous,  dear.  Don't  use  words  of  which 
you  can't  understand  the  meaning.  What  does 
"symbolist"  mean?     Do  you  know? 

LISTEL, 

I  beg  your  pardon.  Well,  he's  very  talented.  And 
who  is  the  other  gentleman? 


140  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

ANTONIA 

A  friend  of  Monsieur  Dembrun — a  painter. 

LISTEL 

Also  very  talented. 

ANTONIA 

Not  in  the  least — or,  rather — I  don't  know.  I  never 
saw  anything  of  his, 

LISTEL 

Is  that  his  wife  with  him? 

ANTONIA 

No 

LISTEL 

Oh — then  I  might  have  brought  a  lady ? 

ANTONIA 

You  know  very  well  that  in  Venice  one  mustn't  be 
too 

LISTEI. 

Certainly.  Then  you  are  not  quite  alone  here — I 
can  be  reassured 

ANTONIA 

Very  good  of  you. 

LISTEL 

How  do  you  pass  the  day? 

ANTONIA 

I  don't  get  up  until  late,  I  lunch  at  noon,  and  in  the 
afternoon  I  visit  churches  or  museums,  with  my 
friends.  We  don't  do  our  sight-seeing  like  the  Eng- 
lish  

IJSTEL 

I  should  hope  not! 

ANTONIA 

A  church  or  a  room  in  a  museum  is  enough  for  one 
day.     Then  from  time  to  time  I  go  to  see  some  pic- 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  141 

ture  that  has  appealed  to  me.  In  that  way  I  have 
such  good  friends  here  and  there:  at  the  Accadem- 
mia,  the  Frari,  the  various  palaces.  Toward  five 
o'clock  I  take  a  gondola  and  go  to  the  Lido — the 
awful  Lido ! — and  turn  my  eyes  in  the  direction  of 
the  soft  Adriatic.  I  watch  the  flotilla  of  boats  from 
Chioggia  with  their  black,  yellow,  and  red  sails. 
There  are  some  that  look  like  clowns  with  huge 
swelHng  trousers,  others  like  bishops,  walking  over 
the  sea  in  sumptuous  Dalmatian  robes.  Or  again  I 
go  to  the  lagoons,  have  the  gondola  tied  to  one  of 
the  piles  and  watch  the  sun  set  over  Saint  Mark's. 
Then  of  all  times  Venice  looks  like  an  Oriental  city. 
I  stay  there,  rocked  by  sea  and  sky,  which  change 
color  every  moment,  like  the  two  Infinites  of  Lo'ie 
Fuller.  It's  unspeakably  beautiful:  fairyland, 
dreams,  paradise! 

LISTEL 

Yes.  Well,  however  you  may  feel,  Venice  has  no 
effect  on  me.  I  was  fearfully  disillusioned:  those 
dreadful  steamers — and  then  I  understand  that  a 
grill  room  has  been  installed  in  Desdemona's  palace. 

ROGER 

(Who  has  overheard  ListeVs  last  xvords)  Not  in 
Desdemona's  Palace. 

LISTEL 

I  beg  your  pardon? 

ROGER 

You  said  Desdemona's  Palace  in  order  to  create  a 
sensation  before  the  company,  but  you  are  mistaken. 
The  grill  room  is  in  the  Swift  Palace,  which  is  an  an- 
nex of  the  Grand  Hotel. 


142  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

LISTEL, 

But  I  assure  you 

ROGER 

I  am  positive :  I  know,  because  I  am  stopping  at  the 
Grand,  which  is  next  door. 

LISTEL, 

It  makes  little  difference. 

ROGER 

None  at  all. 

LISTEl. 

Well,  I  still  insist  that  I  am  disappointed  at  every 
turn.  Why,  only  this  afternoon,  I  found  myself  sur- 
rounded by  a  party  of  a  hundred  Cook's  tourists  in 
the  courtyard  of  the  Doges'  Palace.  Took  away 
every  spark  of  illusion. 

ANTONIA 

When  I  am  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Doges'  Palace  I 
imagine  I  am  present  at  a  -fete  of  the  Princesses 
Leonora  and  Beatrice  d'Este,  for  whom  the  Bucen- 
taura  has  been  sent,  and  I  can  summon  up  the  image 
of  the  whole  ceremony — regattas,  pantomimes  and 
all — I  think  of  the  crowds  of  tourists  as  dressed  in 
magnificent  costumes.  I  don't  mind  tlie  barbarians, 
I  don't  even  notice  them. 

LISTEL 

You  have  to  be  well  up  on  your  history  to  imagine 
the  presence  of  the  Machin  princesses — I'm  awfully 
rusty. 

ANTONIA 

That's  not  altogctlier  necessary,  either.  Why,  the 
other  night  we  went  to  the  Fenice  to  hear  "La 
Boheme."  Next  to  us  in  a  box  was  the  King  of  Siam 
and  his  suite — looked  like  a  cage  of  monkeys — but  I 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  143 

just  remembered  that  the  Republic  of  Venice  used 
to  invite  people  of  that  sort,  and  by  that  means  I 
became  quite  excited  over  the  occasion. 

LISTEl. 

You  have  a  very  good  imagination.  But  in  cases  of 
the  kind  there  must  be  two. 

PIERRE 

And  that  is  not  always  successful.  Take  poor  Mus- 
set,  for  instance. 

lilSTEL, 

That's  why  it  is  not  wise  to  bring  your  mistress  to 
Venice.  It's  better  to  be  there  alone,  because  when 
there  are  two,  there  are  always  three. 

PIERRE 

How  elusive  is  happiness  !     (^A  short  pause) 

LISTEL 

Come  in,  my  dear  Pagello. 

PIERRE 

It  seems  that  Pagello  is  a  very  old  man.  When  he 
refers  to  George  Sand  he  says :  "Ah,  si,  si,  questa 
Francesa  che  fumava  cigaretti." 

JULIETTE 

Meaning ? 

PIERRE 

"Ah,  yes,  that  Frenchwoman  who  smoked  ciga- 
rettes." That  is  all  he  remembers  of  a  love  story 
about  which  so  much  ink  has  flowed. 

ROGER 

And  so  many  tears ! 

ANTONIA 

Look,  our  neighbors  across  the  Canal  are  having  din- 
ner.    The  maiden  lady  is  going  to  sing  this  evening. 


144  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

PIERRE 

Maiden  ladj? 

ANTONIA 

English — a  Miss  Basden,  who  lives  on  the  other  side. 
When  she  has  company,  as  she  has  this  evening,  the 
guests  gather  together  at  the  windows — about  eleven 
o'clock.  You  can  then  see  a  gondola  slip  from  under 
the  shadow  of  the  palace  and  come  to  the  middle  of 
the  Canal.  Miss  Basden  is  in  it ;  she  sings  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a  little  guitar. 

LISTEL 

I  regret  that  I  shall  be  unable  to  hear  her ;  I  must  go 
to  the  Fenice  this  evening  to  hear  "La  Boheme." 
They  say  it  is  a  very  good  performance. 

ANTONIA 

It  is,  very  good.  You  are  sure  not  to  be  disap- 
pointed      Isn't  he,  Juliette.'' 

JULIETTE 

Oh,  it's  perfectly  lovely.  I  cried.  (She  hums  "Mimi 
Pinson,  La  Biondinetta") 

LISTEL 

But  with  me,  Italian  music ! — I'm  Wagnerian. 

ROGER 

Wagnerian !  But  Italy  is  the  true  setting  for  Italian 
music,  Monsieur.  In  Venice,  Florence,  Naples,  you 
should  listen  only  to  Italian  music.  What  is  the  use 
of  being  Wagnerian — here.? 

LISTEL 

That  satisfies  me — only  remember  that  Verdi  began 
it.  {To  Antonia)  Au  revoir,  Madame,  thank  you 
for  your  cordial  welcome. 

ANTONIA 

You're  joking.'* 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  145 

LISTEL 

(^Bowing  to  Juliette)     I  go — enchanted. 

ANTONIA 

To  be  going? 

LISTEL 

No,  by  your  hospitality.  {He  shakes  hands  with 
Roger  and  Pierre) 

ANTONIA 

I'll  see  you  out. 

LISTEL 

Don't  bother.     {They  go  out) 

EGGER 

{When  Antonia  returns)  Your  friend  is  most  exas- 
perating, A  true  Frenchman  away  from  home — 
worse  still:  a  Parisian! 

ANTONIA 

We  cannot  choose  our  compatriots. 

ROGER 

Such  people  get  on  my  nerves. 

JULIETTE 

And  you  don't  trouble  to  conceal  your  feelings 
either ! 

ANTONIA 

I  even  think  you  are  too  frank.  When  I  invite  one 
of  my  friends  to  my  home,  I  don't  like  you  to  allow 
him  to  see  that  he  displeases  you. 

ROGER 

Then    why    do    you    persist    in    having    unpleasant 

friends  ? 

\_Listel  opens  the  door. 

LISTEL 

Don't  trouble — continue  as  if  I  hadn't  interrupted. 
I've  come  to  get  my  cigarette  case ;  I  must  have  left 


146  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

it  on  the  table.  There  it  is — I  have  it,  I  have  it! 
Please  don't  trouble.  Au  revoir,  I  must  be  going. 
{He  goes  out) 

ANTONIA 

Why  don't  you  like  him?  I  think  he's  very  charm- 
ing. 

ROGER 

I  don't  know — his  manner  of  contradicting,  his  way 
of  criticising  everything,  that  derogatory  affecta- 
tion     It  makes  me  ill. 

PIERRE 

But  when  Frenchmen  travel  they're  unbearable — and 
the  ridiculous  things  they  say ! 

ANTONIA 

It  seems  so  to  you,  because  you  don't  understand 
foreign  languages.  Frenchmen  seem  worse  than  the 
others,  but  you  may  be  sure  that  as  much  nonsense 
is  spoken  in  English  or  German. 

PIERRE 

It's  quite  possible. 

ROGER 

Not  long  ago  I  was  very  amused  in  following  two  of 
them  at  Saint  Mark's — two  good  tradespeople :  man 
and  wife.  When  they  came  to  the  mosaic  work  in 
turquoise  and  malachite,  the  man  said :  "Not  so 
bad !"  and  the  woman :  "Tut,  tut,  nonsense !" 
\^Chords  from  an  orchestra  are  heard  outside. 

JULIETTE 

It's  beginning.     Come  quick  and  listen. 
\^She  runs  to  the  window,  Antonia  joining  her  a  mO' 
ment  after.     In  the  distance,  in  front  of  the  Grand 
Hotel,  a  serenade  is  being  sung — accompanied  hy 
instruments — hy  the  Concordia  Society.    Pierre  and 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  147 

Roger  remain  where  they  are,  smoking  and  convers- 
ing, stretched  out  comfortably  in  their  chairs. 

PIERKE 

(^ After  listening  to  the  serenade  for  a  few  moments^ 
Let  Listel  criticise,  I  say.     There's  no  harm  done. 

KOGER 

Even  some  good. 

PIERRE 

Your  friend  at  the  window  is  charming;  her  dress 
looks  as  if  it  were  made  of  moonlight.  She  is  most 
alluring — so  enchanting,  so — and  Venice  agrees  with 
her.  Madame  de  Moldere  exactly  fits  this  city  of 
luxury  and  voluptuousness.  She  looks  like  a  doge's 
wife. 

ROGER 

Your  friend,  too,  is  charming. 

PIERRE 

Thank  you — she  is  nice — a  good  little  girl.  You  are 
very  much  in  love — I  can  see  that. 

ROGER 

Really.? 

PIERRE 

I  should  think  so !  And  you  are  right.  Venice  is  the 
city  of  passion :  Intended  as  the  scene  of  honeymoons 
and  the  breaking  off  of  affairs.  But  it  is  a  great 
mistake  to  bring  a  calm  and  settled  love  here,  as  I 
am  doing. 

ROGER 

Why  did  you  come.'' 


148  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

PIERRE 

{Pointing  to  Juliette)     She  wanted  me  to. 

ROGER 

She  had  an  idea,  no  doubt,  that  Venice  administered 
to  ailing  liaisons,  as  Mentone  administers  to  con- 
sumptives ? 

PIERRE 

Yes,  and  when  the  patient  is  too  far  gone,  the  Midi 
finishes  them — that's  what's  happened  to  me.  Ever 
since  I  came  here,  I've  been  Hke  a  madman.  In  this 
marvelous  setting,  this  atmosphere  of  love,  I  feel  an 
unhealthy  desire  for  the  unknown,  I  dream  of  ad- 
ventures with  every  woman  I  see,  even  the  little  Vene- 
tian girl  who  passes  me  in  the  street  in  her  brown 
shawl,  or  with  the  ruddy  American  who  sits  next  to 
me  at  the  table  in  the  hotel.  I  want  a  rendezvous 
even  if  the  woman  never  comes — there  is  a  certain 
voluptuousness  in  waiting,  and  I  feel  the  need  of  a 
romance  which  would  illuminate,  as  it  were,  my  Vene- 
tian sojourn. 

ROGER 

This  is  serious. 

PIERRE 

I  felt  the  same  way  last  winter  at  the  Opera  Ball. 
Juliette  insisted  on  my  taking  her,  and  I  remember, 
we  were  sitting  in  the  foyer,  close  to  the  wall:  she 
was  in  a  black  domino.  We  were  looking  at  the  peo- 
ple who  seemed  to  be  enjoying  themselves — we  were 
quiet  and  pensive.  She  threw  confetti — she  wanted 
to  create  a  festive  atmosphere,  but  she  was  in  reality 
Dona  Elvira:  she  seemed  to  recognize  her  lover  in 
the  escort  of  every  woman  who  passed.  All  those 
others,  those  mysterious  unknowns,  were  her  rivals. 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  149 

ROGER 

You  dare  speak  of  this,  with  Juliette  standing  over 
there,  listening  to  the  night  music  ?  At  this  moment 
she  is  forming  an  unforgettable  impression  of  Venice. 
This  is  frightful — almost  tragic. 

PIERRE 

Yes,  it's  horrible.  And  yet  she  adores  these  gon- 
dolas, and  the  serenades — she's  all  Bridge  of  Sighs. 
You  know  we  must  always  be  hiring  a  gondola.  I 
take  my  revenge  on  the  gondoliers.  I  don't  give 
any  tips — it's  idiotic  of  me,  I  know.  But  I  simply 
can't  stand  it.  I've  suffered  enough  from  my  "in- 
ner life"  here.     We're  going  to  leave  soon. 

ROGER 

But  it  will  be  just  the  same  in  Paris. 

PIERRE 

Yes,  I  know. 

ROGER 

Then  wouldn't  it  be  better  for  you  both  if  you  told 

her ? 

PIERRE 

It's  very  difficult  to  say  that  to  a  woman 

ROGER 

Well,  then ? 

PIERRE 

I  know:  there's  no  reason  why  it  should  end.  One 
gets  used  to  it  all — thirty-five  years  together:  that's 
what  I'm  heading  for.  Sometimes  I  revolt  against 
the  thought,  because  I've  arrived  at  a  dangerous 
age,  and  before  renouncing  love  forever  I  shall  have 
to  experience  some  final  intoxication. 

ROGER 

You're  a  "woman  of  thirty." 


150  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 


riERRE 

If  you  like. 

ROGER 

You  will  drag  out  a  niiscrablo  existence,  and  Juliette 
will  be  equally  unhappy.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to 
tell  her  the  truth? 

PIERRE 

It  is  not  good  to  tell  all  the  truth. 

ROGER 

We  allow  ourselves  to  be  deluded  by  false  proverbs. 
All  the  truth  ought  to  be  told,  only  not  every  human 
being  is  good  enough  to  hear  it. 

PIERRE 

There  are  things  it's  difficult  to  make  a  woman  un- 
derstand, especially  when  she's  brimful  of  tenderness 
and  affection,  and  proves  to  you  every  day  that  she 
loves  you.  Not  long  ago  she  put  a  bullet  into  me 
— there's  the  wound,  just  above  the  eyebrow. 

ROGER 

Oh,  that's  difFercnt.  You  can't  be  ungrateful!  I 
had  no  idea 

PIERRE 

Yes,  that  was  about  six  months  ago.  Juliette  wasn't 
living  with  me  at  that  time 

ROGER 

Of  course. 

PIERRE 

One  night  I  had  an  appointment — at  twelve — with  a 
very  pretty  woman.  It  was  in  my  studio.  About 
half  past  eleven  I  went  to  my  room.  When  I  opened 
the  door — it  was  quite  dark — I  felt  an  icy  hand 
grasp  mine.  It  was  Juliette ;  she  had  a  presentiment 
or  else  she  had  opened  a  letter — one  of  those  which 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  151 

generous  people  post  and  forget  to  sign — well,  she 
was  there. 

ROGER 

I  shouldn't  have  liked  to  be  in  your  shoes ! 

PIERRE 

Nor  I.  And  just  think — I  had  bought  a  bottle  of 
Champagne  beforehand,  and  tried  my  best  to  get  rid 
of  it.  I  felt  ridiculous.  You  know  my  studio ;  you 
remember  there  is  a  little  antechamber  with  a  small 
chest  near  the  door.  Well,  I  opened  the  cover,  then 
closed  the  door  and  the  cover  at  the  same  time,  so 
that  the  sound  of  the  two  things  should  coincide. 

ROGER 

What  presence  of  mind ! 

PIERRE 

Wait !  I  lighted  the  lamp.  Juliette  and  I  began  to 
talk,  and  while  I  assumed  an  air  of  perfect  tran- 
quillity, I  kept  thinking  of  the  other  woman — all  the 
time.  I  said  to  myself:  "If  only  she  shouldn't  be 
able  to  come !"  But  in  those  cases  they  always  do ! 
Then — a  knock  at  the  door !  I  opened  it — under- 
stand?    I  open  the  door? 

ROGER 

You  used  up  all  your  presence  of  mind  on  the  Cham- 
pagne episode,  and  consequently  had  none  left. 

PIERRE 

It  must  have  been  that.  I  conducted  the  woman 
into  the  studio,  and  showed  her  to  a  seat.  She  said 
to  me:  "I'm  not  intruding?"  I  answered:  "Not 
in  the  least — on  the  contrary."  At  that  moment 
Juliette  takes  a  revolver  from  her  pocket  and  fires. 

ROGER 

On  you? 


152  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

PIERRE 

No :  that  would  have  been  logical — on  her.  It  wasn't 
her  fault,  poor  woman.  Only  I  sprang  in  front  of 
her  just  in  time.  I  was  hit.  I  fell — Juliette  thought 
she  had  killed  me — she  fell  weeping  on  my  body, 
while  the  other  got  out  of  the  way  as  fast  as  she 
could,  more  dead  than  alive. 

ROGER 

She  might  have  killed  you !     That's  a  real  drama. 

PIERRE 

It  was.  Now  you  understand  that  when  a  woman 
has  done  that  for  you 

ROGER 

She  might  do  it  again. 

PIERRE 

No,  it's  not  so  much  that.  If  I  have  gone  into  de- 
tail it  was  not  in  order  to  tell  you  an  interesting 
story:  I  wanted  merely  to  let  you  see  what  sort  of 
woman  Juliette  is.  The  day  I  tell  her  that  I  don't 
love  her  any  more,  she  would  as  likely  as  not  poison 
herself — I  know  she  has  been  on  the  point  of  doing 
that  more  than  once  before. 

ROGER 

It  is  serious.  Then  are  you  going  to  sentence  your- 
self to  a  life  of  lies,  of  treachery.'* 

PIERRE 

What  can  I  do.? 

ROGER 

I  couldn't  stand  that. 

PIERRE 

What  then.? 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  153 

ROGER 

You  must  proclaim  the  right  to  stop  loving.  People 
must  become  accustomed  to  a  very  simple,  natural, 
even  fatal,  process :  eternal  love  affairs  are  admira- 
ble exceptions,  but  exceptions  none  the  less.  It's 
monstrous  to  think  of  it;  in  no  other  circumstances 
of  human  life  can  we  make  permanently  binding 
promises:  in  religion,  in  business,  in  marriage,  in  the 
professions.  Two  partners  can  dissolve  their  rela- 
tionship, man  and  wife  can  divorce,  a  man  can  resign 
his  position;  and  yet  our  sentimental  code  will  not 
allow  two  lovers  to  break  off,  and  we  ask  of  free 
love — how  ironical ! — more  than  we  ask  of  business, 
of  marriage,  of  patriotism,  even  of  religion !  We 
shall  have  to  define  free  unions  as  those  in  which  the 
partners  are  the  worst  of  slaves. 

PIERRE 

Very  true. 

ROGER 

People  must  understand  that  when  one  of  two  lovers 
says :  "I  do  not  love  you  any  more,"  the  words  are 
not  a  personal  insult,  and  that  not  to  be  loved  any 
longer  is  neither  shameful  nor  ridiculous.  For, 
really,  one  suffers  for  the  most  part  from  hurt  pride. 
How  many  women  are  there  who  wouldn't  prefer  to 
see  their  lovers  dead  rather  than  inconstant  .^^  And 
it's  the  same  thing  with  men.  In  that  case  their 
love  is  simply  a  form  of  vanity,  egotism — that's  all. 
If  people  saw  these  things  clearly,  we  should  be 
spared  many  a  disaster,  and  a  broken  love  affair 
would  not  be  turned  into  a  vendetta  where  the  cast- 
off  lover  becomes  a  Corsican  bent  on  revenge.     For 


154.  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

even  the  most  violent  sort  of  love  may  end  in  warm 
friendship 

PIERKE 

Just  as  a  fresh  evening  ends  a  hot  day.  No  doubt  it 
would  be  better  as  you  suggest,  but  that  assumes 
that  we  repudiate  the  ideas  which  we  have  inherited 
from  time  immemorial.  Could  you  indeed  prevent 
those  who  are  the  playthings  of  passion  from  suffer- 
ing.? 

ROGER 

No,  they  will  continue  to  suffer.  And  if  they  feel 
that  passion,  what  better  can  they  ask  than  to  be 
able  to  suffer.?  Only  they  would  be  spared  calumny, 
poison,  daggers.  If  we  used  the  language  of  resigna- 
tion and  justice,  we  should  help  the  great  mass  of 
lovers — merel}"^  because  we  should  be  looking  the 
truth  straight  in  the  face — most  of  these  suffer  be- 
cause people  in  novels  suffer.  For  instance:  put  a 
lover  on  the  stage  who  leaves  his  mistress — she  has 
been  unfaithful  to  him- — and  if  he  fails  to  kill  her 
or  at  least  drag  her  about  by  the  hair,  the  audience 
will  say  he  doesn't  love  her.     And  yet ! 

PIERRE 

Your  theory  is  very  good,  but  you  yourself 

ROGER 

I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  but  listen  to  me: 
I  adore  Madame  de  Moldcre,  and  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  she  loves  me,  but  the  day  she  ceases  to 
love  me  I  intend  that  she  shall  tell  me  so,  bravely 
and  loyally 


1 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  155 

PIERRE 

Take  care,  they  are  coming  back! 

[^Antonia  and  Juliette  return  in  the  direction  of  the 

men. 

PIERRE 

{To  Jidiefte)  Is  the  concert  over?  It  was  very 
charming — were  you  pleased? 

JULIETTE 

It  was  adorable!  How  soft  the  air  is  to-night!  Do 
you  know  what  you  would  do  if  you  were  a  nice  boy, 
Pierrot  ? 

PIERRE 

My  name  is  Pierre.  Call  me  Pletro,  If  you  like;  we 
are  in  Italy,  but  not  Pierrot. 

JULIETTE 

You  would  hire  a  gondola,  Pietro,  for  an  hour. 

PIERRE 

Again? 

JULIETTE 

It  Isn't  nice  to  say  that! 

PIERRE 

Now,  my  dearest,  It's  late — time  to  go  home. 

JULIETTE 

Let's  go  home  in  a  gondola. 

PIERRE 

A  walk  would  do  us  good.  We've  never  walked 
through  the  little  streets,  and  I  read  only  this  morn- 
ing in  my  Baedeker  that  they  are  very  animated,  con- 
stituting a  veritable  theater  of  curious  scenes  of  the 
life  of  the  people. 

JULIETTE 

I  don't  like  to  walk. 


15G  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

PIERRE 

I  don't  like  to  navigate — twice  I've  just  escaped 
drowning,  and  I'm  always  afraid  of  the  water — it's — 
it's — well,  I  simply  don't  like  it. 

JULIETTE 

You  never  told  me  that  before. 

PIERRE 

Oh,  yes,  I  have:  don't  you  remember  in  Paris,  when 
we  had  to  cross  the  Seine,  I  invariably  took  a  round- 
about way  in  order  to  use  a  bridge? 

JULIETTE 

I  think  your  joke  is  in  very  bad  taste. 

PIERRE 

I  know  I'm  ridiculous,  hateful,  I'm  even  unworthy  the 
honor  of  bearing  the  name  of  Pietro,  but  I  have  an 
ungodly  horror  of  gondolas. 

ANTONIA 

Really,  Pierre,  you're  not  at  all  nice — the  dear  girl 
would  so  appreciate  it! 

JULIETTE 

Look,  there's  one  just  passing! 

PIERRE 

"Just"  is  good !  They  pass  all  the  time.  Well — hail 
it! 

JULIETTE 

{At  the  window)    Psst!    Psst! 

PIERRE 

It's  not  a  cab.  {Shouts  from  the  window)  Gondola ! 
Gondola ! 

ANTONIA 

What  are  you  going  to  do  to-morrow.'' 

JULIETTE 

Would  you  care  to  go  to  Murano.f" 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  157 

ANTONIA 

It  seems  to  be  a  place  well  worth  seeing.  Where 
shall  we  meet? 

JULIETTE 

What  do  you  say  to  one  of  the  thousand  little  tables 
at  Quadri's? 

ANTONIA 

Good — at    one    of    the    thousand    little    tables    at 
Quadri's.     Now  we'll  watch  you  leave. 
{Pierre  and  Juliette  go  out. 

ANTONIA 

Au  revoir,  au  revoir! 
Pierre's  voice 
Buona  sera! 

ANTONIA 

Juliette  is  perfectly  charming,  and  she  adores  Pierre. 

ROGER 

Yes. 

ANTONIA 

But  he  doesn't  love  her. 

ROGER 

You  think  so? 

ANTONIA 

I  am  certain— you  know  it  as  well  as  I :  he  just  spoke 
to  you  about  it. 

ROGER 

How  do  you  know? 

ANTONIA 

Intuition.  Pie  dined  well,  and  this  evening  he  was  in 
a  confiding  mood.  It's  not  hard  to  see  that  he 
doesn't  love  her.     Don't  fib  now,  didn't  he  tell  you? 

ROGER 

Yes. 


158  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

ANTONLV 

You  see?  It's  too  bad!  Pool'  little  creature! 
There's  always  one  who  loves  more  than  the  other, 
and  that's  the  one  who  suffers. 

ROGER 

But  how  bored  the  other  is  ! 

ANTONIA 

Are  you  bored? 

ROGER 

I  was  not  speaking  of  you  and  me. 

ANTONIA 

No,  you  refer  to  ordinary  lovers. 

ROGER 

Yes. 

ANTONIA 

I  shouldn't  call  Juliette  vulgar.  She's  very  refined 
in  some  ways.    But  what  sort  of  man  is  he? 

ROGER 

Nice  fellow — only  he  doesn't  love  her — any  more. 

ANTONIA 

She  still  has  all  her  illusions. 

ROGER 

The  question  resolves  itself  into  whether  it  would  be 
better  to  allow  her  to  keep  them  or  take  them  from 
her.     That  was  the  subject  of  our  conversation. 

ANTONIA 

And  you  advised  him ? 

ROGER 

Simply  to  tell  Juliette  that  he  did  not  love  her. 

ANTONIA 

Simp]}^''  Simplest  thing  in  the  world — only  it  means 
farewell.     Farewell!     You  advised  him  to  do  that? 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  159 

How  frightful  love  is !  I  don't  like  to  think  about 
it 

ROGER 

You  mustn't. 

ANTONIA 

Yet  you  will  leave  me  some  day — if  you  want  to, 

ROGER 

Now  you're  only  flirting,  and  you  don't  believe  a 
word  you  say.  You  know  that  if  one  of  us  tires  of 
the  other,  it  will  be  you — yes,  you! 

ANTONIA 

Then  you'll  kill  me. 

ROGER 

No,  I  shall  not  kill  you. 

ANTONIA 

Yes,  3'^ou  will — otherwise  it  is  serious. 

ROGER 

Then  let  it  be  serious.  But  I  say  I  will  not  kill  you 
because  you  will  not  love  me  then :  that's  your  right. 

ANTONIA 

Are  you  in  earnest.'' 

ROGER 

Very  much.  {Antonia  quickly  rises)  What's  the 
matter .'' 

ANTONIA 

You,  you  don't  love  me,  you  can't  love  me,  if  you 
even  foresee  the  possibility  of  my  ceasing  to  love  you. 
You  can't  imagine  how  much  you  are  to  me,  how 
deeply  you  have  made  me  love  you ;  and  when  there's 
— now  here  you  come,  to  me,  who  adore  you  heart 
and  soul,  and  express  doubts  like  that — horrible ! 


160  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

ROGER 

I'm  terribly  sorry,  please  forgive  me — please.  I 
never  thought  you'd  take  it  this  way. 

ANTONIA 

How  should  I  take  it?     Put  yourself  in  my  place. 

ROGER 

It  was  my  fault.     See,  I'm  very,  very  sorry. 

ANTONIA 

Why  did  you  say  it.^* 

ROGER 

Why  ?  Simply  because  my  mind  was  running  in  that 
channel  this  evening.  The  result  of  our  conversa- 
tion, the  one  I  had  with  Pierre.  When  I  think  of 
certain  things,  and  watch  what  is  happening  about 
us,  near  us — and  also  when  I  recall 


ANTONIA 

Yes,  I  know,  but  because  you  have  known  women 
who  have  lied  to  you,  is  that  any  reason  why  I  should 
be  insincere?  If  they  deceived  you,  why  should  you 
think  me  unfaithful?  My  dear  friend,  don't  judge 
me  according  to  their  standards,  don't  torture  me 
with  the  instruments  your  experience  has  taught  you 
to  use. 

ROGER 

You  shouldn't  blame  me.  I  love  you  so  much  that 
there  are  times  when  I  do  the  stupidest  things. 

ANTONIA 

Don't  complicate  our  love,  don't  throw  obstacles  in 
its  way ;  above  all,  don't  develop  a  romantic  soul 

ROGER 

I?     Good  Lord ! 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  161 

ANTONIA 

I  am  so  near  you,  you  must  know  that  no  one  is  be- 
tween us. 

ROGER 

You  are  right. 

[^There  is  a  short  silence,  then  a  shrill  voice,  accom- 
panied by  a  mandolin,  is  heard  outside. 

ANTONIA 

You  hear.'*  Our  venerable  Enghsh  lady.  Come  and 
see  her. 

ROGER 

Poor  creature — it's  really  pathetic !  She  loves  to 
listen  to  her  own  voice ;  she's  intoxicated  with  it,  the 
way  a  peasant  gets  intoxicated  on  his  own  second- 
rate  wine.  She  has  no  lover,  and  in  order  to  drag 
out  her  wretched  existence  she  imagines  poetic  epi- 
sodes      We  ought  at  least  to  respect  her. 

ANTONIA 

We  should  pity  her  with  all  our  heart.  Often  I  see 
tall  youths  who  come  to  visit  Venice  with  their 
parents.  The  museums  must  bore  them  fearfully, 
but  how  their  eyes  sparkle  when  they  look  at  the 
women:  they  are  like  young  captive  barbarians.  I 
look  at  them  occasionally  and  smile:  I  consider  that 
a  good  deed — an  act  of  charity.  You're  not  jealous, 
are  you?  Of  course  I  look  only  at  the  homely  ones: 
tbey  need  it.     One  look,  one  smile — it's  not  much. 

ROGER 

It's  a  great  deal  for  them:  it  gives  them  something 
to  dream  about.  I  remember  when  I  came  to  Venice 
for  the  first  time,  sixteen  years  ago:  I  was  a  httle 
fellow,  I  could  see  nothing  in  Giovanni  Bellini.     If 


162  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

a  woman  like  you  had  deigned  to  look  at  me,  I  should 
have  thought  myself  a  god! 

ANTONIA 

And  now  you  have  that  look,  as  well  as  my  eyes — and 
you  are  only  a  man!  But  I  am  willing  to  have  you 
look  at  the  little  girls  who  come  here  with  their 
Papas  and  Mammas;  look  at  them  as  long  as  you 
like — only — hands  off! 

ROGER 

You  needn't  worry. 

ANTONIA 

Let  me  see,  what  is  to-day?  I  lose  track  of  dates 
here. 

ROGER 

It  must  be  the  twentieth. 

ANTONIA 

We  must  leave  soon. 

ROGER 

Why?    There  is  no  reason 

ANTONIA 

It's  getting  very  hot,  and  June  is  dangerous — you 
might  come  down  with  fever.  The  canals  are  most 
unhealthy.  We'll  go  somewhere,  it  makes  little  dif- 
ference where,  so  long  as  we  are  alone.  Only  I 
should  like  to  go  to  a  place  where  you  have  never 
been  with  a  woman — if  there  is  such  a  place. 

ROGER 

Oh,  yes,  there  are  some. 

ANTONIA 

Do  I  know  them? 

ROGER 

You  are  trying  to  complicate  our  love ! 


ACT  ij  THE  FREE  WOMAN  163 

ANTONIA 

You  are  right.  I  prefer  not  to  think  of  that  at  all. 
Yet  you  are  not  what  I  should  call  a  Don  Juan. 

ROGER 

Is  that  a  reproach,'' 

ANTONIA 

Oh,  no.  Don  Juan  didn't  remain  faithful  to  one 
woman  long  enough — no,  he  was  a  sublime  sparrow! 
Thank  God,  you  are  not  a  ladies'  man,  you  are  not 
even  a  man-about-town.  Already  your  heart  is  a 
cemetery. 

ROGER 

But  a  cemetery  means  death,  oblivion! 

ANTONIA 

It's  not  oblivion  with  men:  each  mistress  has  her 
gravestone,  her  inscription,  and  her  little  cross. 

ROGER 

That's  the  least  we  can  do. 

ANTONIA 

But  it  is  too  much.  With  us  women,  when  we  love 
a  man,  everything  else  disajapears :  our  life  begins 
from  the  day  we  know  him.  There  is  no  cross,  no 
inscription  in  our  heart — it  is  absolute  forgetfulness. 

ROGER 

Ah,  the  common  ditch  for  the  dead ! 

ANTONIA 

Why  do  you  say  that.f^  How  careful  I  have  to  be 
about  what  I  say  to  you!  I  must  weigh  every  word 
— soon  I  shan't  dare  to  talk.  I  said  that  because 
I've  heard  it  said  to  my  women  friends  a  hundred 
times,  and  because  I  have  observed  it  so  often,  in  the 
case  of  others.  I  don't  refer  to  myself,  it  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  me.     Ah,  if  you  only  knew!     "Com- 


164  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

mon  ditch  for  the  dead!"     Really,  you  seem  to  im- 


agine  

ROGER 

I  imagine  nothing  at  all. 

ANTONIA 

Of  course  you  weren't  childish  enough  to  say  It,  but 
you  thought ! 

ROGER 

Nothing  of  the  kind. 

ANTONIA 

Oh,  come,  some  one  must  have  told  you ? 

ROGER 

I  have  been  told  nothing. 

ANTONIA 

But  I'm  sure — some  one  must  have  told  you  dreadful 
lies  about  me.  Do  you  think  I  haven't  heard  some 
of  the  awful  stories  about  m3^self?  And  why  not? 
I'm  a  widow,  I  have  money,  I'm  independent,  and  a 
great  many  men  try  to  make  love  to  me.  Calumny 
must  creep  in  somehow ! 

ROGER 

Why  get  so  excited  about  it? 

ANTONIA 

Because  I  love  you ! 

ROGER 

I  swear  I  have  been  told  nothing  at  all.  You  know 
me  very  well,  too ;  you  know  I  have  not  tried  to  find 
out  anything. 

ANTONIA 

You  might  have !  But  of  course,  you  are  not  at  all 
curious — you're  not  jealous — you  never  asked  me  a 
single  question! 


ACT  i]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  165 

ROGER 

Because  I  had  no  right  to.  I  was  master  of  your 
life  only  from  the  day  you  told  me  you  loved  me, 
the  day  you  became  mine.  I'm  not  like  other  men. 
Nowadays  people  seem  to  recognize  the  right  of 
lovers  to  search  in  the  past  of  their  mistresses,  and 
are  only  too  happy  to  find  that  they  have  a  past! 
The  greater  part  of  the  time  we  imagine  in  per- 
fectly good  faith  that  they  should  have  waited  for 
us!  Poor  creatures !  When  we  question  them,  they 
give  precisely  what  answers  please  them,  and  they 
are  right! — If  I  have  never  questioned  you  about 
your  past  life,  don't  imagine  for  an  instant  that  I 
was  not  interested.  Very  often  my  mind  wanders, 
vaguely,  to  certain  things,  and  I  am  very  unhappy. 

ANTONIA 

And — and  you  really  suffer.'^ 

ROGER 

I  do. 

ANTONIA 

I'm  so  sorry.  Dear,  dear  love,  I  don't  want  you  to 
be  unhappy,  I  don't  want  you  to  suffer  any  more. 
For  a  long  time  I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you — 
there  must  be  no  mysteries,  no  secrets  between  us — 
no  long  silences  when  our  minds  wander,  when  we 
think  too  much.  There  is  nothing  in  my  past  to 
make  you  too  unhappy,  only  when  you  have  heard 
the  story  of  my  life  up  to  the  time  I  came  to  know 
you,  you  will,  I  am  sure,  pity  me — that  is,  if  you 
believe  me. 

ROGER 

Yes,  yes,  I  will  believe  you. 


166  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  i 

ANTONIA 

There  arc  certain  things  wliich,  when  we  look  at 
them,  enlarge  our  souls.  Can  one  be  gay  in  the 
presence  of  a  sunset,  or  can  one  tell  a  lie  in  the 
melancholy  splendor  of  sleeping  Venice?  {She  turns 
out  the  lamp) 

KOGER 

What  are  you  doing? 

ANTONIA 

It's  too  bright — I  want  to  talk  to  you  in  the  dark. 
{She  sits  down  next  to  him)  Sit  near  me — close, 
so  close — give  me  your  hand.     Now — you  love  me? 

KOGER 

I  adore  you. 

ANTONIA 

Now  I'll  begin.  In  order  to  have  you  understand 
about  my  marriage,  I  must  tell  you  about  my 
wretched  early  education;  not  wretched  from  a  ma- 
terial point  of  view,  but  moral.  What  examples  I 
had!     Now  when  my  mother  remarried,  my  father 

was  the  French  consul  at  Tiflis 

\^As  she  continueSy  the  curtain  jails. 


SECOND    ACT 

Antonio's  handsome  apartment  on  the  Champs- 
Elysees,  Paris.     The  drawing-room. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Pierre  is  seated  reading.  Ro- 
salie, the  maid,  enters  and  f^es  the  fire. 

ROSALIE 

Madame  says  she  has  just  this  moment  come  in  and 
will  see  you  at  once.  If  Monsieur  would  care  to  see 
the  papers,  the  evening  editions  are  here.  Here  are 
the  Temps  and  the  Debats. 

PIERRE 

Thank  you,  Rosalie. 

[He  unfolds   the   Temps  in  a   mechanical  manner. 

After  a  few  seconds,  enter  Antonia. 

ANTONIA 

I've  kept  you.    Have  you  been  waiting  long? 

PIERRE 

I've  been  here  since  half  past  four. 

ANTONIA 

I'm  so  sorry.     Why  did  you  come  so  soon? 

PIERRE 

When  I  left  you  the  day  before  yesterday  you  said: 
"Come  at  half  past  four,  and  we  can  have  a  chat 
together  before  the  guests  arrive." 

ANTONIA 

Did  I  say  that?  Possibly — I  forgot  all  about  it.  I 
did  come  home  later  than  I  had  intended,  however. 
I  always  have  so  many  things  to  do! 


168  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  u 

PIERRE 

I  sliould  imagine  so.  What  have  you  been  doing  to- 
day? 

ANTONIA 

Nothing  much.     I  went  to  the  Bois. 

PIERRE 

Alone.? 

ANTONIA 

No :  with  my  niece,  wlio  is  now  in  the  house. 

PIERRE 

So  your  niece  is  here  with  you.''  She's  not  been  here 
long,  has  she.'' 

ANTONIA 

During  the  past  week.  I  thought  I  had  already  told 
you.''  Yes,  my  sister  wanted  me  to  take  care  of  her 
while  she  was  away.  She  went  to  Vienna,  to  be  gone 
a  month.  So  I  took  the  girl  with  me  to-day  to  enjoy 
the  fresh  air. 

PIERRE 

Many  people  in  the  Bois? 

ANTONIA 

I  can't  say — I  didn't  notice — I  drove  through  the 
deserted  lanes,  at  full  speed.  I  love  it !  The  Bois  is 
very  pretty  in  winter.  People  don't  appreciate  it 
lialf  enough.  Then  I  dismounted  and  walked  a  little, 
by  the  side  of  a  lake ;  it  seemed  to  be  ailing  and  deso- 
late. The  sun  was  setting  opposite  me ;  it  seemed  so 
cold  in  that  pale  sky !  It  was  so  sad  I  wanted  to 
cry. 

PIERRE 

{Taking  her  hand)     Poor  dear! 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  169 

ANTONIA 

{Drawing  hach  her  hand,  as  she  says  nervously) 
You  mustn't  pity  me,  I  enjoy  that  melancholy  sensa- 
tion! 

PIERRE 

Very  well. 

ANTONIA 

The  cold,  the  twilight,  the  solitude — it  was  all  ex- 
quisite. I  don't  know  whether  you  are  like  me,  but 
I  love  to  be  alone,  and  I  never  feel  lonesome.  {A 
short  silence)     Is  that  all  you  have  to  say.^* 

PIERRE 

What  do  you  want  me  to  say?  You  are  not  in  the 
least  encouraging. 

ANTONIA 

Encouraging — for  what  ? 

PIERRE 

I  leave  you  two  days  ago  in  a  very  friendly  frame  of 
mind,  even  a  little  bit  in  love,  yes,  in  love,  and  I  now 
find  you  absolutely  changed,  cold.  You  have  even 
forgotten  our  appointment,  the  appointment  you 
made.  I've  been  waiting  for  you  for  an  hour,  ah, 
how  impatiently ! 

ANTONIA 

You  should  not  have  waited. 

PIERRE 

That  isn't  the  question.  Here  you  receive  me  as 
you  would  an  ordinary  bore — you  don't  care  to  see 
me !    If  I  do  bore  you,  why  not  tell  me.'' 

ANTONIA 

But  you  don't  bore  me. 


170  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

PIEllllE 

I  don't  know,  but  every  time  I  see  you  I  have  to  be- 
gin all  over  again,  as  if  I  had  met  you  for  the  first 
time.    You  seem  to  forget  where  we  left  off  before. 

ANTONIA 

I  can't  keep  track  of  things  that  way.  It's  not  my 
fault;  you  must  take  me  as  I  am. 

PIERRE 

I  ask  nothing  better  than  to  "take  you  as  you  are" 
— but  you  trouble  me,  you  make  me  afraid.  Perhaps 
you  are  amused 

ANTONIA 

No,  I  am  not ! 

PIERRE 

Nor  am  I.  One  day  you  allow  me  to  have  great 
hopes,  and  the  next  you  forget  everything;  or  else 
you  pretend 

ANTONIA 

No,  I  don't  pretend ! 

PIERRE 

Yes,  you  do.  Well,  I  can't  understand  a  thing.  I 
don't  know. 

ANTONIA 

Nor  I.    Really,  I  don't. 

PIERRE 

At  least  you  are  sure  I  love  you.'*  From  the  day  I 
met  you  at  Venice,  I  loved  you — I  told  you  then, 
and  you  allowed  me  to  make  love  to  you. 

ANTONIA 

Every  woman  likes  that. 

PIERRE 

Yes,  but  you  knew  how  much  it  meant  to  me.  I  ex- 
plained to  you  how  I  lived  and  how  anxiety  had  crept 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  171 

into  my  quiet  life:  the  bitterness  of  joy  is  as  much  a 
fact  as  the  intoxication  of  suffering.  I  shall  suffer 
with  you. 

ANTONIA 

Then  why  do  you  ask  for  a  change? 

PIERRE 

Merely  because  it  will  he  a  change.  You,  you  have 
at  last  come  into  my  life:  you  were  the  dream,  the 
adventure,  the  romance,  the  chimera,  the  beyond — 
the  indispensable.  I  fell  madly  in  love  with  you. 
Now  what  are  you  going  to  do? 

ANTONIA 

I  have  no  idea. 

PIERRE 

Don't  you  know? 

ANTONIA 

No,  you  must  decide. 

PIERRE 

You  are  so  imperious  that  I  find  it  very  difficult. 

ANTONIA 

But  I  like  to  be  commanded. 

PIERRE 

Shall  I  burn  my  ships?  I  have  no  objection,  but 
they  refuse  to  burn. — Very  well,  since  you  wish  it. 
Oh,  here  is  something  I  wanted  to  give  you.  (He 
talces  a  jewel  case  from  hh  pocJcet  and  gives  it  to 
Antonia) 

ANTONIA 

(Opening  the  case)    A  key? 

PIERRE 

Yes,  a  key. 

ANTONIA 

Why? 


172  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

PIERRE 

You  know:  it's  the  key  to  the  apartment. 

ANTONIA 

What  apartment? 

PIERRE 

You  know.  Why  do  you  try  to  make  it  more  em- 
barrassing for  me?  And  at  this  time?  It's  very  un- 
kind of  you.  I've  been  carrying  it  around  with  me 
for  a  month,  wanting  to  give  it  to  you,  but  not 
daring:  /  couldn't  find  an  opportunity.  Don't  you 
remember?  One  day  you  told  me — or  rather,  au- 
thorized me,  allowed  me ?  (^He  hesitates  a  mo- 
ment, embarrassed,  then  proceeds  resolutely  and 
quickly)  Well,  it's  near  here :  Rue  de  Balzac,  Num- 
ber Seventeen,  first  floor  right.  You'll  see,  there  are 
three  steps. 

ANTONIA 

The  audacity!     (A  child  is  heard  crying)     Wait  one 
moment — what's  the  matter  with  that  child?     {She 
rings  ) 
[Enter  Rosalie. 

ROSALIE 

Did  Madame  ring? 

ANTONIA 

Yes,  Rosalie.  Please  ask  Mademoiselle  Cendrier  to 
come  to  me.  I  can't  imagine  what's  the  trouble  now 
— perhaps  she's  nervous — or  angry.  It  may  be  one 
of  her  fits  of  temper. 

\_Rosalie  goes  out,  and  Mademoiselle  Cendrier  comes 
in  a  moment  later, 

MADEMOISELLE  CENDRIER 

Does  Madame  want  me? 


ACT  n]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  173 

ANTONIA 

Yes,  Mademoiselle  Cendrier.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
that  that  child's  crying  is  inexcusable,  and  that  you 
should  be  able  to  make  her  stop. 

MADEMOISELLE  CENDRIER 

Madame,  I  seem  to  have  no  influence  over  Mademoi- 
selle Yvette:  she  refuses  to  practice  her  music  les- 
sons, and  insists  on  saying  naughty  things  about  the 
author  of  her  "method,"  Monsieur  Le  Couppey.  She 
says  she'd  rather  die  than  play  the  Eighth  Recrea- 
tion, which  she  says  is  too  difficult. 

ANTONIA 

You  may  tell  IVIademoiselle  Yvette  that  she  shall 
have  no  dessert  this  evening,  and  that  if  she  fails 
to  play  the  Eighth  Recreation  without  a  mistake 
before  dinner  she  shall  not  go  riding  with  me  to- 
morrow. 

MADEMOISELLE  CENDRIER 

Very  well,  Madame,  I  shall  tell  her.     {She  goes  out) 

PIERRE 

Poor  little  child!  That  Eighth  Recreation  is  really 
very  hard  work.  Reminds  me  of  the  time  when  I 
was  a  little  fellow,  taking  piano  lessons.  I  disliked 
it — I  remember,  too,  how  I  was  made  to  lift  my  fin- 
gers, one  after  the  other 

ANTONIA 

Independence  Exercises,  those  are  called. 

PIERRE 

And  when  my  mother  went  out  she  tied  me  to  the 
piano  by  a  rope — in  order  that  I  should  learn  my 
Independence    Exercises !      I    see    that    educational 
methods  have  not  changed  since  my  day. 
\_A  rathe?-  long  pause. 


174  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

ANTONIA 

So — you  imagine  that  I  shall  como  to  your  apart- 
ment? 

PIERRE 

I  don't  know — I  have  no  idea — ^but  I  shall  wait. 
When  you  are  bored,  when  you  feel  the  need  of  being 
comforted,  being  taken  care  of  with  infinite  tender- 
ness  

ANTONIA 

Hush !     The  key  is  very  pretty ! 

PIERRE 

I  had  it  copied  from  one  that  belonged  to  a  Louis 
XV  escritoire. 

ANTONIA 

You  needn't  be  so  sad  about  it.  It's  very,  very 
pretty.  What  must  the  apartment  be  if  the  key  is 
made  of  gold? 

PIERRE 

The  door  is  of  wood !  You'll  see — it's  very  simple — 
but  I  think  it  will  please  you.  I'm  so  nervous  and 
excited — I'm  anxious  to  have  it  please  you! 

ANTONIA 

Do  I  make  you  so  afraid  as  all  that?  How  timid 
you  are  !     I'm  surprised. 

PIERRE 

Is  that  so  remarkable? 

ANTONIA 

Well,  men  who  are  successful  with  women  are  usually 
more  enterprising,  bolder 

PIERRE 

I'm  not  so  "successful" ! 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  175 

ANTONIA 

Nonsense !    You  are  the  sort  of  man  a  woman  shoots. 

PIEERE 

Please  don't  refer  to  that  ridiculous  story. 

ANTONIA 

There  is  nothing  ridiculous  about  it,  it's  most  flat- 
tering, I  think.     By  the  way,  how  is  your  friend? 

PIERRE 

Very  well,  thank  you. 

ANTONIA 

I  can  still  see  the  wound.  How  splendid  it  is  to  be 
loved  like  that !  Remarkable,  for  you're  really 
rather  ordinary. 

PIERRE 

I  know  it,  but  you  are  very  extraordinary.  Why 
did  you  say  that.?  Listen  to  me:  it's  now  half  past 
five;  the  visitors  will  soon  be  here — will  you  come,'' 

ANTONIA 

I  don't  know. 

PIERRE 

Naturally,  I  don't  ask  you  to  come  to-morrow  or  the 
day  after — I  shan't  try  to  fix  a  day — I  shouldn't 
like  to  do  that.    I  shall  wait  for  you  every  day. 

ANTONIA 

Every  day !  Don't  talk  nonsense — what  if  I  never 
come?  No,  let  me  write,  it's  much  simpler.  I  can 
do  that,  for  I  don't  imagine  your  letters  are  opened 
at  the  Rue  de  Balzac? 

PIERRE 

Of  course  not.  Then  if  you  are  going  to  write,  I 
had  better  let  you  have  the  name  under  which  I 
rented  the  apartment.  Of  course,  I  didn't  use  my 
real  name. 


176  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

ANTONIA 

I  should  think  not. 

PIERRE 

Write  to  M.  Mcrowig  O'Coddj — O — apostrophe — 
two  d's  and  a  y. 

ANTONIA 

Couldn't  3^ou  have  found  a  simpler  name?  This  one 
is  so  unusual. 

PIERRE 

Exactly:  in  such  cases  people  choose  ordinarj'^,  well- 
known  names,  and  that  is  a  great  mistake.  Suppose 
some  one  had  a  reason  for  asking,  and  inquired  of 
the  concierges  who  lived  on  the  ground  floor.  He  is 
told:  M.  Aubry  or  M.  Durand — no!  But  if  he  is 
told:  M.  Merowig  O'Coddy,  there  is  no  room  for  sus- 
picion— he  will  think:  Ah,  yes,  the  young  man  who 
writes  for  the  Mercure  de  France.  He  will  not  in- 
sist. 

ANTONIA 

Very  ingenious.  I'm  very  glad  to  see  that  you  think 
of  everything:  with  you,  passion  does  not  exclude 
forethought  or  prudence. 

PIERRE 

Why  do  you  blame  me.''  I  am  prudent,  but  it  is  for 
you  as  well  as  for  myself;  it  is  to  your  interest  that 
no  one  know  of  it 

ANTOXIA 

That  is  all  very  well,  IMerowig  O'Coddy,  this  is  a 
good  deal  more  tlian  prudence.  Don't  deny  you 
were  mortally  afraid  of  Juliette. 

PIERRE 

Nothing  of  the  sort! 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  177 

ANTONIA 

Don't  be  a  child.     Oh,  and  how  Is  jour  little  friend? 

PIERRE 

You  have  already  asked  me :  very  well,  thank  you. 

ANTONIA 

Don't  try  to  conceal  it:  you  rcere  terribly  afraid.'' 

PIERRE 

That's  ungenerous  and  unjust.  You  know  very  well 
I  am  not  afraid  of  her,  only  I  don't  want  to  cause 
her  unnecessary  pain.  Otherwise  what  risk  do  I 
run.'*  Juliette  and  I  are  not  married;  I  have  sworn 
no  oaths  at  the  town  hall  or  in  the  church ;  she  has 
no  parents  to  whom  I  am  responsible  for  her  happi- 
ness. Now  if  I  take  precautions,  it  is  for  her  sake, 
and  not  for  mine.  What  you  call  fear  is  much  more 
like  pity.  Yes,  the  love  I  have  for  you  makes  me 
pity  her.  When  we  love  each  other,  we  can  be  truly 
happ3',  but  let  us  leave  her  at  least  the  appearance 
of  happiness ! 

ANTONIA 

Yet  the  moment  I  wish  it,  you  are  willing  to  sacrifice 
her  for  me.  But  I  shan't  ask  you — you  are  right, 
we  mustn't  allow  her  to  suffer.  I  myself  shouldn't 
be  happy  if  I  knew  we  were  the  cause  of  any  sorrow 
to  that  dear  good  child. 

PIERRE 

You  have  a  very  tender  heart.    Then,  may  I  hope .'' 

ANTONIA 

I  can  never  remember  that  name 

PIERRE 

Let  me  write  it  for  you. 

\^He  takes  a  card  case  from  his  pocket;  a  photo- 
graph falls  to  the  floor,  which  he  quickly  picks  up. 


178  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  u 

ANTONIA 

What  is  that? 

PIEIlllE 

Nothing. 

ANTONIA 

Nothing? 

riERRE 

A  picture. 

ANTONIA 

Juhette's  ? 

PIERRE 

No — mine. 

ANTONIA 

Show  it  to  me. 

PIERRE 

It's  nothing  at  all. 

ANTONIA 

Show  it  to  me. — Don't  be  ridiculous.  (He  shoxos  her 
the  picture)  It's  very  nice — flattering.  Is  it  for 
me? 

PIERRE 

Well,  I 


ANTONIA 

What? 

PIERRE 

That's  the  only  one  I  have.     I've  just  found  it  and 
I  was  going  to  take  it  to  Juliette — this  evening. 

ANTONIA 

That  makes  no  difference. 

PIERRE 

I'll  give  you  another,  this  is  only  a  proof. 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  179 

ANTONIA 

It  is ;  it  is  the  proof  I  want. — Careful !    There's  the 
bell.     They're  beginning  to  come. 
[^She  slips  the  picture  between  the  Leaves  of  a  hooh, 
•which  lies  on  the  small  table  next  to  her. 

SERVANT 

{Announcing^     Monsieur  Listel. 

XISTEL 

{Enters  and  hows  to  Antonia)  I  hope  you  are  well, 
Madame  ? 

ANTONIA 

Thanks.    And  you,  Fernand.'* 

LISTEL 

Not  at  all  well. 

ANTONIA 

Do  you  know  M.  Pierre  Letang.? 

LISTEL, 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  dining  with  Monsieur  at  your 

apartment  in  Venice. 

[^Lisfel  and  Pierre  shake  hands. 

ANTONIA 

That's  so. — Well,  is  there  any  news  ? 

LISTEL 

Don't  speak  about  it!  I've  just  come  from  Auteuil, 
where  my  friend  Raflard  had  a  fearful  fall.  He  tried 
to  jump  the  stream.  Had  to  be  taken  away  on  a 
stretcher.     He's  seriously  injured,  I  believe. 

ANTONIA 

Those  obstacle  races  are  frightful.  Yet  they  are  the 
only  kind  I  like. 

PIERRE 

They're  very  bad  for  your  heart. 


180  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

ANTONIA 

They  do  make  mc  ill,  but  I  like  to  see  them  all  the 
same.  I've  thought  of  a  plan  that  I  think  very 
clever. 

LISTEL 

You  have? 

ANTONIA 

I  play  rather  heavily,  and  if  the  horse  I  have  all  my 
money  on  falls,  I  say  to  myself  that  my  money  falls 
with  it,  and  my  sorrow  for  the  loss  is  set  against 
my  pity  for  the  horse  and  rider.  But  if  the  other 
horses  fall,  aren't  they  merely  hated  rivals,  elimi- 
nated from  the  chase? 

LISTEL. 

Simple,  but  it  is  really  an  entire  system  of  philoso- 
phy. True  happiness  can  be  attained  by  these 
means,  in  spite  of  adversity.  You  must  be  very 
happy ! 

ANTONIA 

I  am  not  unhappy,  but  I  have  a  rather  monotonous 
time  of  it.     I  just  told  you 

LISTEL 

You  like  obstacles.  Yet  it  lies  entirely  with  you, 
Madame,  to  make  of  your  Longchamps  a  marvelous 
Auteuil. 

PIERRE 

Never  lose  hope,  Madame,  accidents  will  occur  soon 
enough — glory  and  defeat,  too. 

ANTONIA 

May  Heaven  hear  you ! 

SERVANT 

(Announcing)    INIadame  Danglcjais. 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  181 

ANTONIA 

(Going  to  greet  Madame  Dangle jais,  who  enters) 
My  dear,  how  long  have  you  been  in  Paris? 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

Since  the  day  before  yesterday;  this  is  my  first  calL 

ANTONIA 

It's  lovely  of  you  !    I'm  so  glad  to  see  you ! 

MADAME   DANGLEJAIS 

I  have  any  number  of  things  to  talk  over  with  you ! 

ANTONIA 

I  should  think  so ! 

PIERRE 

(Rising)     I  must  go,  Madame. 

ANTONIA 

So  soon?  You  have  made  a  short  visit!  Good-by, 
then;  I  hope  you  will  come  soon  again,  and  not  wait 
eternities  before  calling — (To  Listel)  Why  do  you 
laugh  ? 

LISTEL. 

Did  I? 

ANTONIA 

Then  why  do  you  smile? 

LISTEL 

Because  in  ordinary  conversation  big  words  like 
eternity  often  mean  extremely  short  periods :  two  or 
three  days  at  the  most. 

ANTONIA 

How  true,  and  how  many  exaggerations  we  utter 
every  moment ! 

LISTEL 

Yes,  every  moment. 


182  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  ii 

PIERRE 

{Bowing   to  Madame  Dangle jais)      Madame — {To 
Listel)     Good  day,  Monsieur. 
J[He  goes  out. 

LISTEL 

Very  charming,  Lctang,  so  sympatlictic !  Do  you 
ever  see  his  friend,  the  lady  we  dined  with  at  Venice? 

ANTONIA 

No,  I  haven't  seen  her  since.  But  then  I  don't  know 
her.  I  received  her  that  night  because  I  couldn't 
very  well  have  had  Letang  leave  her  at  the  hotel. 
And  then  in  Venice,  you  know,  it's  not  so  important 
as  here  in  Paris 

LISTEL 

Of  course:  you  couldn't  possibly 

ANTONIA 

It  is  difficult. — Of  course,  she  is  very  nice  and  cul- 
tured— almost  fit  for  society  ! 

LISTEL 

Quite.    Do  you  know  who  she  is,  by  the  way.^* 

ANTONIA 

No. 

LISTEL 

The  illegitimate  daughter  of  the  Due  de  Sambleu, 
you  know,  the  famous  Due  de  Sambleu  who  created 
such  a  stir  during  the  last  years  of  the  Empire — 
they  called  him  La  Vadrouille. 

ANTONIA 

Oh,  is  she  his  daughter?  Well,  I'm  not  in  the  least 
surprised.     Blood  will  out ! 

LISTEL 

Yes,  his  daughter  by  the  celebrated  Florence  Roulier. 
The  child  was  well  educated :  convent,  Conservatoire, 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  183 

Odeon — that  is  where  Letang  first  saw  her;  he  fell 
in  love  with  her  and  took  her  off  the  stage. — She's 
pretty. 

ANTONIA 

No,  she  is  not  pretty. 

LISTEL 

She  has  a  great  deal  of  charm — and  she  adores  him. 

ANTONIA 

That  is  the  important  point. 

LISTEL, 

And  she's  so  jealous ! 

ANTONIA 

So  it  appears ! 

LISTEL 

She  shot  him.     You  know  the  story.? 

ANTONIA 

{Impatiently)  Yes,  yes,  I  know  it.  {To  Madame 
Dangle jais)     Have  you  returned  to  stay,  or  not.^^ 

MADAME   DANGLEJAIS 

Oh,  I  shall  stay  for  some  time.  I've  just  been  travel- 
ing all  over  Europe.  I've  seen  all  the  men  and 
women  who  are  interested  in  our  cause.  I've  talked 
with  Ibsen. 

ANTONIA 

Madame  Danglejais,  you  know,  is  deeply  interested 
in  the  Woman  Movement. 

LISTEIi 

Oh  ho !  Really  ?  Very  interesting.  You  have  a 
great  deal  to  do. 

ANTONIA 

I  should  think  so! 


184  THE  FREE  WOMAN 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

You  should  be  a  Feminist,  IVfonsieur,  like  all  intelli- 
gent people, 

LISTEL 

It  ma}'  not  be  very  modest  of  me,  Madame,  but  I 
must  confess  that  I  have  Feministic  tendencies. 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

Good!  Yes,  I  have  returned  with  a  stock  of  new 
ideas.  One  must  travel  and  see  what  people  are  do- 
ing in  other  countries.  I  have  a  great  plan.  Now 
in  France  we  are  very  narrow 

SERVANT 

{Announcing)     Monsieur  Damornay. 

ANTONIA 

What  an  agreeable  surprise!  {To  Damornay  as  he 
enters)     My  dear  friend! 

DAMORNAY 

How  are  you,  my  dear  Madame.?  You  are  always 
well,  I  don't  have  to  ask.  You  are  prettier  and  more 
bewitching  than  ever. 

ANTONIA 

And  you  are  as  always  the  most  gallant  man  in  the 
world.  Where  have  you  been  ?  What  have  you  done 
this  summer.? 

DAMORNAY 

I  have  spent  the  season  at  Contrexeville,  as  usual. 

ANTONIA 

Is  it  pretty  there.? 

DAMORNAY 

Frightful.  Imagine  a  cage  just  large  enough  to 
walk  around  in — see  the  same  people  all  the  time. 

ANTONIA 

Any  old  acquaintances.? 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  185 

DAMORNAY 

Not  a  single  one. 

ANTONIA 

Was  Madame  Damornay  with  you? 

DAMORNAY 

No,  my  wife  went  to  Vichy  for  her  liver. 

ANTONIA 

With  her  daughter,  no  doubt  ? 

DAMORNAY 

No,  my  daughter  was  at  Salies-de-Bearn — to  take 
the  mud  baths. 

LISTEL. 

(Aside  to  Madame  Dangle jais)     Charming  family! 
So  Parisian ! 

ANTONIA 

Why,  I  had  no  idea  your  daughter  was  ill? 

DAMORNAY 

Oh,  yes,  unfortunately  she 

[^He  continues  in  an  undertone,  as: 

LISTEL 

(To  Madame  Dangle  jais)     So  you  conversed  with 
Ibsen,  Madame? 

MADAME   DANGLEJAIS 

Yes,  I  had  that  thrilling  experience. 

LISTEL 

What  sort  of  man  is  he? 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

A  very  extraordinary  man. 

LISTEL 

I  should  think  so,  but  I  meant 

SERVANT 

(Announcing)    Monsieur  Cherange. 


186  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

CHERANGE 

(Enters,  and  bows  to  Antonia)  Madame!  I  trust 
you  arc  well? 

ANTONIA 

Thank  you.  (Introducing)  Monsieur  Cherange, 
Monsieur  Damornay.  Monsieur  is  author  of  the 
book  of  the  hour :  a  study  on  the  Cidtivation  of  Un- 
healthy Sensations,  a  work,  as  the  title  suggests,  of 
the  highest  idealism. 

DAMORNAY 

I  have  read  it.  I  am  astonished  to  see  how  erudite  a 
book  could  come  from  a  man  as  young  as  Monsieur! 

CHERANGE 

Monsieur,  Pascal  wrote  his  Traite  des  coniques  at 
the  age  of  sixteen. 

DAMORNAY 

I  understand  that,  Monsieur,  but  I  meant  that  your 
work  revealed  wide  experience,  maturity,  dyspepsia 
even. 

SERVANT 

(Announcing)     Madame  Egrcth. 

MADAME    EGRETH 

(Who  enters)     Ah,  Madame! 

ANTONIA 

I  am  very  glad  to  sec  you,  Madame !  I  have  not  had 
the  pleasure  for  a  long  time.  Is  Monsieur  Egreth 
well.? 

MADAME    EGRETH 

Very  well,  Madame,  thank  you. 

ANTONIA 

And  your  little  boy — Alfred,  I  believe? 

MADAME    EGRETH 

Yes,  Alfred.    But  he's  a  big  boy  now. 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  187 

ANTONIA 

How  old  is  he? 

MADAME    EGRETH 

Eight  years. 

ANTONIA 

Eight  years?  Why,  the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  was 
in  long  dresses.     Is  he  as  dear  as  ever? 

MADAME    EGRETH 

Oh,  yes.  And  he's  such  a  comfort  to  us ;  he's  work- 
ing very  hard,  too. 

ANTONIA 

So  soon?     At  what? 

MADAME    EGRETH 

We  want  him  to  prepare  for  the  Ecole  polytechnique. 

ANTONIA 

You  are  beginning  early. 

MADAME    EGRETH 

One  cannot  begin  too  early.  It's  becoming  more  and 
more  difficult  every  day  to  enter  the  government 
schools,  the  Polytechnique  in  particular. 

ANTONIA 

Do  you  want  him  to  enter  the  Artillery? 

MADAME    EGRETH 

Oh,  no,  I  hardly  think  he  would  care  for  a  military 
career:  he's  so  tender-hearted — he's  just  like  a  little 
girl. 

ANTONIA 

What  then? 

MADAME    EGRETH 

His  teacher  thinks  he  has  a  gift  for  mathematics, 
and  as  he  works  very  hard,  we  hope  he  may  go  into 
the  tobacco  business. 


188  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

I.ISTE1. 

And  why  sliouldn't  lie? 

MADAME    EGRETII 

We  hope  so,  but  we  don't  talk  about  it  too  much. 

ANTONIA 

Very  wise,  I'm  sure. 

DAMORNAY 

Dear  Madame,  will  jou  please  introduce  me  to  Ma- 
dame Egreth? 

ANTONIA 

Certainly.  (To  Madame  Egreth)  Monsieur  Da- 
mornay. 

DAMORNAY 

I  think,  Madame,  we  are  neighbors  in  the  country.  I 
live  near  Louviers,  in  the  Eure — the  name  of  the  es- 
tate is  Chesneraye. 

MADAME  EGRETH 

Ah,  yes.  Monsieur. 

DAMORNAY 

I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  chatting  with  your  hus- 
band occasionally.  We  get  along  beautifully  to- 
gether. I  have  met  you,  too,  in  your  carriage — you 
were  driving  a  little  chestnut  pony  that  I  adore. 

MADAME  EGRETH 

You  are  very  good.     He  returns  it. 

DAMORNAY 

The  pony.'' 

MADAME  EGRETH 

No,  my  husband. 

ANTONIA 

That's  so,  you  did  spend  the  summer  in  the  country. 
You  went  to  sound  your  electors. 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  189 

DAMORNAY 

Yes — a  little. 

ANTONIA 

What  do  they  have  to  say? 

DAMORNAY 

Don't  speak  of  it !  Frightful !  I  don't  know  where 
we  are  going  nowadays :  Socialism  is  making  terrible 
headway ;  and  you  meet  peasants  that  don't  tip  their 
hats,  and  don't  even  say,  "How  do  you  do?" 

lilSTEL 

Awful!  The  spirit  is  as  bad  in  the  country  as  it  is 
in  the  city! 

DAMORNAY 

Monsieur,  conditions  are  so  deplorable  that  the  peo- 
ple I  employ  on  my  farms  never  use  the  third  person 
in  speaking  to  me.  They  say,  "Very  well.  Monsieur, 
you're  wrong,"  or  else,  "Monsieur,  give  me  my 
money !" 

CHERANGE 

It  makes  you  think.  We  are  beginning  to  regret  the 
Ancien  regime. 

DAMORNAY 

But  I  am  an  old  Republican — never  doubt  that. 

CHERANGE 

God  knows  I  can  read  it  on  your  face! 

DAMORNAY 

I  have  proved  myself :  by  using  my  rifle  and  building 
barricades.  Yet,  I  must  confess  that  familiarity 
with  those  people  disgusts  me. 

CHERANGE 

But  if  the  peasants  have  ceased  to  use  the  third  per- 
son, it  was  only  because  they  saw  there  was  no  third 
person  to  address. 


190  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

DAMORNAY 

What  do  3'ou  mean? 

CHERANGE 

We  must  conceive  the  third  person  as  a  symbolic  fig- 
ure :  it  is  not  you  in  person,  but  some  one  above  you, 
some  one  with  a  mission,  some  representative  of  Prov- 
idence for  those  good  peasants :  a  protector  and 
friend.  That  is  the  significance  of  the  third  per- 
son ;  and  when  they  speak  to  this  h3^pothetical  en- 
tity, it  does  not  answer  them  as  a  rule.  Therefore 
they  do  not  address  it. 

DAMORNAY 

A  very  original  explanation,  at  least.     Funny,  too ! 

CHERANGE 

Odd,  isn't  it.? 

MADAME  EGRETH 

{Rising,  as  if  moved  hy  a  spring)  Good-by,  Ma- 
dame. 

ANTONIA 

What?     So  soon? 

MADAME  EGRETH 

I  must  run,  I  have  so  many  visits  to  pay ! 

ANTONIA 

Give  my  kindest  regards  to  your  husband  and  to  the 
Polytechnician. 

AIADAME  EGRETH 

I  shall  be  glad  to. 
\^She  goes  out. 

ANTONIA 

I  wonder  what  put  it  into  her  head  to  call  on  me  to- 
day? I  haven't  seen  her  for  five  years — I  couldn't 
think  of  a  thing  to  say  to  her.     Why  did  she  come? 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  191 

LISTEIi 

Very  simple:  she  wanted  to  establish  an  alibi. 

ANTONIA 

How  do  you  mean? 

LISTEL 

She  has  a  lover — named  Lapoix— it  started  scarcely 
two  weeks  ago.  They  meet  near  here :  Rue  Bassano 
— just  about  this  time. 

ANTONIA 

Listel  is  marvelous :  he  knows  everything  and  every- 
body. 

LISTEL 

It  was  not  difficult  to  put  the  pieces  together ;  as  she 
was  coming  from  the  Rue  Bassano  some  one  saw  her. 
She  was  thought  to  be  in  another  part  of  the  city  at 
that  time,  and  in  order  to  justify  her  presence  here, 
she  called  on  you — elementary  case  of  alibi. 

ANTONIA 

That  little  Madame  Egreth.''    Are  you  positive.? 

LISTEL 

Positive.     Everyone  knows  about  it. 

ANTONIA 

And  what  does  Monsieur  Egreth  say  to  it  all.'' 

LISTEL 

He  says  nothing. 

ANTONIA 

Because  he  knows  nothing. 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

There  is  a  Monsieur  Egreth  who  lectures  on  Femi- 
nism; is  this  the  one.? 

ANTONIA 

Yes. 


192  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

A  very  remarkable  man. 

LIS  TEL, 

In  what  way? 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

I  mean  he  lectures  very  interestingly. 

SERVANT 

(Announcing)   Madame  Rolleboise.     Madame  Sinn- 

glott. 

\^As  these  ladies  enter,   they  are  introduced.     The 

usual  formalities  are  gone  through. 

ANTONIA 

How  stunning  you  are,  ladies !  Where  have  you 
come  from? 

MADAME  SINNGLOTT 

We  have  just  come  from  La  Bodinicrc,  Avhcre  we 
heard  Monsieur  Egreth  lecture. 

ANTONIA 

Was  it  interesting? 

MADAME  ROLLEBOISE 

Intensely.  He  spoke  like  a  god!  There  is  a  man 
who  understands — Woman  ! 

LISTEL 

His  wife ! 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

What  did  he  talk  about? 

MADAME  SINNGLOTT 

He  said  that  women  were  entitled  to  receive,  directly, 
all  the  husband's  income,  and  to  dispose  of  it  as  they 
thought  best. 

LISTEL 

How  appropriate!     Perfect! 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMxVN  193 

ANTONIA 

Really,  Listel,  you  are  too  cynical ! 

LISTEIi 

I  said  nothing! 

SERVANT 

(Announcing)     Monsieur  Roger  Dcmbrun. 
[Roger  enters,  is  welcomed  hy  Antonla,  who  intro- 
duces him  to  the  guests. 

LISTEL 

(Shaking  hands  with  Roger)  My  dear  Monsieur, 
we  were  destined  to  meet  to-day. 

ROGER 

Indeed ! 

ANTONL\. 

We  were  on  the  topic  of  Feminism ;  these  ladles  are 
very  excited  about  It — they've  just  come  from  Mon- 
sieur Egreth's  lecture. 

ROGER 

Ah,  yes. 

MADAME  SINNGLOTT 

Were  you  there.  Monsieur? 

ROGER 

No,  but  I  have  heard  him  before. 

MADAME  ROLLEBOISE 

Don't  you  think  he  Is  very  talented? 

ROGER 

No,  Madame,  but  he  Is  an  orator :  he  says  vague 
things  In  an  extremely  convincing  manner. 

MADAME  SINNGLOTT 

Are  you  a  Feminist,  IMonsIeur? 

ROGER 

That  depends  on  the  women,  Madame,  and  also  on 
what  they  demand. 


194^  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

MADAME  ROLLEBOISE 

We  ask  only  what  is  our  right.  For  instance,  that 
a  married  woman  shall  not  forever  be  the  doll,  the 
plaything  of  her  husband,  that  she  have  a  voice 
in  the  education  of  the  child,  that  she  have  the  right 
to  dispose  of  her  fortune,  and  be  prepared  for  the 
time  when  her  husband  tries  to  squander  her 
dowry 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

The  principle  of  separation  of  property  has  already 
been  accepted  and  put  into  practice  in  many  coun- 
tries, notably  in  Turkey.  Is  it  not  shameful  that 
Turkey  is  so  far  ahead  of  us  in  a  reform  of  this 
kind.? 

MADAME   SINNGLOTT 

So  that  a  Turkish  woman  is  no  more  a  slave  now 
than  a  French  woman.  In  France  a  woman  contracts 
by  marriage  to  deliver  herself  to  her  husband;  she 
owes  him  the  decuhitum  conjugalem  on  demand.  It's 
as  bad  as  the  Napoleonic  Code,  if  we  can  credit 
Stendhal ! 

MADAME  ROLLEBOISE 

Or  the  Pandour  Code. 

MADAME   SINNGLOTT 

It's  the  worst  sort  of  bondage,  the  most  abject  form 
of  slavery.  Why,  in  Turkey  at  least,  the  women 
can  divide  their  burdens. 

LISTEL 

Of  course,  and  yet  you  will  hear  wives  complain  that 
their  husbands  fail  to  fulfill  all  their  obligations.  It 
is  true  that  with  certain  women  it  would  be  a  case 
of  the  Danaids. 


ACT  n]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  195 

DAMORNAY 

What  else  do  you  ask? 

MADAME    SINNGLOTT 

We  wish  to  be  able  to  enter  the  liberal  professions 
and  enjoy  the  same  civil  rights  as  men. 

DAMORNAY 

(Laughing)     Would  you  like  to  vote? 

MADAME  ROLLEBOISE 

Why  not?  If  we  pay  taxes,  is  it  any  more  than  just 
that  we  elect  those  who  control  taxation,  or  elect  even 
some  of  our  own  number?  In  a  word,  that  we  be- 
come candidates? 

DAMORNAY 

It's  impossible,  quite  impossible! 

MADAME    SINNGLOTT 

Is  it  not  monstrous  that  my  own  servant  votes,  while 
I  cannot,  that  he  helps  to  elect  deputies  who  will 
make  and  uphold  laws  which  are  directed  against 
me,  a  woman? 

MADAME  ROLLER OISE 

It's  positively  sickening! 

CHERANGE 

You  are  perfectly  right,  Mesdames. 

DAMORNAY 

It's  downright  madness,  I  say  I 

CHERANGE 

Oh,  no,  Monsieur.  You  are  an  old  Republican,  and 
you  admit  no  progress.  You  are  the  incarnation  of 
the  sinister  spirit  of  Jacobinism,  you  have  not  yet 
gone  beyond  the  Rights  of  Man.  Yet  Universal 
Suffrage  was  a  most  illogical  institution,  it  caused 
results  which  were  false — and  why  should  not  women 
have  their  place  in  all  this?    We  must  be  just,  surely. 


196  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

DAMORNAY 

Shall  thej  be  given  scats  in  the  House,  and  the  Sen- 
ate? 

CHKRANGE 

Why  not?  Let  them  be  lawyers,  engineers,  judges, 
and  doctors.  Only  in  their  own  interest,  I  advise 
them  not  to  try  to  accomplish  anything,  for  if  they 
pretend  to  compete  wdth  us,  the  whole  thing  will  end 
in  the  death  of  gallantry.  When  they  become  as 
strong  as  we,  then  they  must  not  expect  to  depend 
on  their  weakness. 

LISTEIi 

Because  that  would  be  fulfilling  several  offices  at  the 
same  time. 

CHERANGE 

Quite.  They  would  lose  sexually  what  they  have 
gained  socially.  Already  what  our  fathers  called  the 
"bagatelle" — for  them  the  principal  thing — is  for  us 
in  reality  nothing  more  than  such.  The  importance 
of  their  little  infamies,  their  betrayals,  their  favors 
or  their  refusal  to  grant  them,  has  diminished 
in  our  eyes.  If  we  were  to  rewrite  Antony  we  should 
say,  "She  resisted  me;  I  did  not  insist."  And  if  we 
surprised  our  worst  mistress  in  the  arms  of  our  best 
friend,  we  should  not  cry  out,  "Kill  her!" — Allow 
me,  Madame — my  best  regards  ! 

AKTONIA 

That  makes  no  difference.  You  yourself  confess 
you  have  presented  only  a  hypothetical  case. 

CHERANGE 

What  of  it,  if  by  means  of  this  hypothesis  I  can 
arrive  at  an  original  solution  of  a  common  case? 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  197 

DAMOKNAY 

Besides,  you  have  only  put  forth  personal  opinions. 

CHERANGE 

By  no  means :  there  are  a  great  many  young  people 
who  agree  with  me. 

DAMOENAY 

Do  you  represent  the  youth  of  France.'' 

CHERANGE 

Not  all  the  youth,  but  the  intellectual  youth,  I  am 

sure. 

[^He  goes  out. 

ANTONIA 

An  extraordinary  little  fellow! 

LISTEL 

He  has  a  lot  of  intelligence. 

MADAME  ROLLEBOISE 

And  plenty  of  cheek! 

MADAME  SINNGLOTT 

He's  very  young;  how  old  is  he? 

ANTOXIA 

Not  yet  twenty-five.  Only  he  has  seen  everything, 
read  everything.  He's  quite  a  scholar — and  he 
knows  something  else  besides  love  affairs. 

LISTEL, 

He  will  make  his  way  in  the  world. 

DAMORNAY 

Yes,  there  are  some  like  that.  They  know  every- 
thing, they  have  dabbled  in  everything.  I  don't  like 
the  boy  at  all,  he  treated  me  like  an  old  rag.  Did 
you  hear  the  way  he  spoke  to  me? 

ANTONIA 

As  if  he  despised  you.  And  v/hat  do  you  think  of 
him,  Monsieur  Dembrun? 


198  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

ROGER 

I  think  that  the  young  man  said — rather  paradoxi- 
cally, of  course — a  great  many  true  things. 

DAMORNAY 

I  don't  know  about  that,  but  I  am  sure  he  could 
have  been  answered  in  a  dozen  ways. 

ANTONIA 

However,  you  didn't  think  of  one. 

DAMORNAY 

I  was  going  to  answer  when  he  left.  He  must  have 
realized  that — he's  very  devious. 

ROGER 

He  can  assume  a  very  unpleasant  manner:  and  he 
poses,  but  that  is  only  a  sign  of  his  extreme  youth. 

ANTONIA 

Do  you,  too,  despise  women? 

ROGER 

Oh,  no,  but  I  firmly  believe  that  the  basis  of  wom- 
en's demands — the  equahty  of  the  sexes — is  a  great 
delusion.  Things  that  arc  too  different  can  never 
be  equal:  nature  herself  is  against  it.  In  attempt- 
ing to  do  away  with  sexual  contrast,  which  is  the 
food  of  love,  love  itself  will  be  stifled;  we  shall  not 
only  end  in  the  death  of  gallantry  but,  which  is  far 
more  serious,  in  the  bankruptcy  of  love,  and  be 
plunged  into  a  war  of  the  sexes.  In  that  war  the 
women  are  bound  to  lose,  for  we  all  know  how  much 
physical  strength  counts  for  in  the  struggle  of  life. 

MADAME  SINNGLOTT 

But  love  among  women 

ROGER 

Even  then  they  would  lose. 


ACT  II ]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  199 

MADAME  ROLLEBOISE 

But  somewhere  between  the  equality  of  the  sexes  and 
the  present  inequality,  Monsieur,  you  must  admit 
there  is  a  place  for  urgent  reforms? 

EOGER 

By  all  means !  The  Code  must  be  materially  modi- 
fied on  your  behalf,  Mesdames,  but  the  laws,  even 
when  they  are  modified,  will  still  have  nothing  to  do 
with  matters  of  sentiment,  with  those  mysterious 
attractions  and  repulsions  of  life ;  there  the  one  who 
loves  the  less,  man  or  woman,  is  master  of  the  other. 

ANTONIA 

That's  true. 

ROGER 

Even  with  our  present  Code  there  are  men  who  abase 
themselves  and  ruin  women,  and  there  are  unscrupu- 
lous and  triumphant  women  who  spread  disaster 
about  them.  In  such  cases  the  law  is  helpless ;  we 
must  educate  and  enlighten  the  soul.  Occasionally 
the  law  is  dangerous  to  honest  people,  and  it  is  best 
to  let  it  be— until  we  possess  an  ideal  Code,  without 
the  margin.  But  when  you  speak  of  your  servitude, 
Mesdames,  you  especially,  we  can  only  smile :  you  are 
free  women!  You  understand,  free?  For  the  most 
part  you  are  not  slaves  but  mistresses,  and  we  are 
infinitely  tender  toward  you,  respectful,  devoted — 
and  we  pity  you. 

ANTONIA 

Not  all  men  are  like  you.  Many,  the  great  majority, 
are  selfish  and  brutal  masters. 

ROGER 

You  must  then  find  out  whom  you  have  to  deal  with ; 
with  husbands  who  don't  beat  and  ruin  you,  behave 


200  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

like  free  human  beings — that  is  all  we  ask.  Then  in- 
deed will  the  cause  of  Feminism  have  made  real 
progress. 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

How  true  that  is,  Monsieur !  Everywhere  I  go  I  hear 
so  much  about  the  frivolity  and  capriciousness  of 
the  French  woman.  It's  unjust.  Just  as  the  fash- 
ions come  from  France,  it  seems  as  if  vices  have  to 
go  hand  in  hand  with  them ;  for  in  France  everything 
is  more  elegant,  more  brilliant,  more  prettily  cynical. 
We  are  overwhelmed  with  complaints  about  the 
morals  of  the  middle  classes  and  society — that  is,  the 
free  women — when  all  the  time  the  example  should 
be  set  by  the  latter.  Let  them  reform  themselves 
first,  and  our  cause  and  society  at  large  will  be  much 
better  off. 

MADAME   ROLLEBOISE 

We  are  here  ready  to  help  you ;  it's  a  verj'  interest- 
ing experiment. 

MADAME   SINNGLOTT 

Oh,  there  is  plenty  to  be  said.  {To  Antonia)  Good- 
by,  Madame.    I  hope  to  see  you  soon  again. 

MADAME   ROLLEBOISE 

{To  Dangle jais)     Good-by,  Madame. 

[^Madame  Rollehoise  and  Madame  Sinnglott  go  out. 

ANTONIA 

How  independent  those  little  women  are ! 

LISTEL 

But  they  didn't  say  a  thing.  When  they  speak  to- 
gether their  Feminism  soars  above  the  clouds. 

DAMORNAY 

Their  husbands  must  be  happy! 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  201 

LISTEL 

But  thej  have  no  lovers. 

DAMORNAY 

(Rising)  The  family  is  going  to  ruin!  Well,  I 
must  be  going. 

ANTONIA 

Now  that  you've  returned  to  Paris  you  must  come 
to  see  me  sometimes — I  am  at  home  every  day  at  the 
same  hour. 

DAMORNAY 

I  shall  come  soon  again. 
\_He  goes  out. 

ANTOXIA 

Study  him  well,  he  belongs  to  a  race  that  is  fast  dis- 
appearing: gentlemen. 

MADAME  DANGLEJAIS 

He  must  have  been  a  splendid  specimen. 

LISTEL 

He  is  a  tj^pe  from  another  age ;  he  has  the  fine  man- 
ners of  the  old  insurgent  of  '71,  one  of  those  who 
helped  build  barricades,  and  who  now  owns  a  cha- 
teau, pictures,  collections. 

ANTONIA 

He  used  to  be  a  delightful  conversationalist.  I  find 
him  much  changed,  older. 

LISTEL, 

Do  you  know  why?  He  is  with  a  little  girl  whom 
he's  madly  in  love  with — extenuating  circumstances. 

ANTONIA 

Who  is  she? 

LISTEL 

Fanny  Louzy. 


202  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

ANTONIA 

I  seem  to  remcinlx^r  the  name.  Didn't  she  use  to  sing 
somewhere  ? 

LISTEL 

Yes,  slic  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage — they  are  all 
smitten  at  that  age.  She  had  a  wonderful  act:  two 
men  from  Lorraine  and  two  from  Brittany,  old 
carollcrs  for  whom  she  had  invented  some  silly  songs. 
She  called  them  "Rough  Carols."  "Rough,"  think  of 
it !    It's  like — I  don't  know  what — sheer  nonsense ! 

ANTONIA 

And  Damornay  swallowed  the  hook ! 

I-ISTEL 

Regular  Baron  Plulot.  Left  his  wife  at  once.  If 
it  continues  much  longer,  he  won't  have  a  sou  left 
when  he  dies.  That  is  why  he  said  that  the  familj?^ 
is  going  to  ruin.  And  she  is  unfaithful  to  him! 
Once  she  lived  at  such  a  pace  that  it  looked  like  the 
end — then  he  sent  her  to  Mentone,  and  wrote  four- 
page  letters  to  her  daily,  paternal,  full  of  sage  ad- 
vice, and  she  sent  him  telegrapliic  answers :  "Zizi 
very  good,"  or  else  "Little  girl  went  to  bed  at  nine." 

ANTONIA 

He  must  have  been  mad ! 

LISTEI. 

Indeed  he  was.     Madame,  I  must  say  au   rcvoir — 
(To  Madame  Dangle jais) — Madame!     (To  Roger) 
Au  revoir,  Monsieur. 
[He  goes  out. 

MADAME   DANGLEJAIS 

Very  amusing,  isn't  he? 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  203 

ANTONIA 

And  he  knows  everything  and  everybody.  {To 
Roger)     I  don't  think  you  like  hira? 

ROGER 

No,  I  don't,  he  is  a  gossip,  a  scandal-monger;  he 
collects  stories  and  dispenses  them  carelessly,  and 
on  every  occasion.  Every  evening,  as  he  comes  from 
the  Bourse,  he  makes  visits,  and  deals  out  his  daily 
provision  of  stories  and  rigmaroles ;  fills  his  basket, 
which  he  empties  to  women  of  the  streets,  who  in 
their  turn  empty  their  moral  filth  into  him.  I  detest 
that  sort  of  person. 

ANTONIA 

You  are  very  severe. 

ROGER 

Not  so  much  as  I  ought  to  be — don't  defend  him.  I 
shall  soon  tell  you  why.     {A  short  'pause) 

MADAME   DANGLEJAIS 

(QuicJcli/  rising)     Good-by,  dear. 

ANTONIA 

Good-by.  I'm  sorry  we  didn't  have  a  second  to  talk 
to-day.  But  please  drop  in  and  have  lunch  with  me 
some  of  these  days.  Just  send  me  a  line  the  day  be- 
fore. 

MADAME   DANGLEJAIS 

I'll  be  glad  to. 
l^She  goes  out. 

ANTONIA 

I'm  very  tired,  and  I  have  an  awful  headache! 

ROGER 

Did  you  have  many  guests  to-day  .f* 


204.  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

ANTONIA 

One  unending  stream  from  five  o'clock  on.  Isn't  it 
absurd,  our  custom  of  receiving  people  for  whom  j^ou 
don't  care  a  bit,  and  who  never  utter  anything  but 
the  commonest  platitudes? 

ROGER 

But  why  must  you  do  it? 

ANTONIA 

No  one  forces  me,  of  course. 

ROGER 

And  it  will  begin  all  over  again  to-morrow. 

ANTONIA 

Yes. — You're  not  at  all  sociable  this  evening.  You've 
not  even  said  How  d'ye?  (She  offers  her  cheek, 
•which  he  kisses)     What  a  sad  sort  of  kiss ! 

ROGER 

I'm  not  feeling  gay.  I  have  bad  news  from  my 
brother.     I  must  leave. 

ANTONIA 

When? 

ROGER 

To-morrow  night,  at  the  latest. 

ANTONIA 

That's  too  bad ! 

ROGER 

I  must.    Whom  have  you  seen  to-day? 

ANTONIA 

The  people  of  course  who  were  here  when  you  ar- 
rived; then  there  was  that  little  Madame  Egreth, 
who  left  a  moment  before.  That's  all — and  then, 
your  friend  Letang. 

ROGER 

I  had  a  pleasant  time  with  Listel  at  lunch  to-day. 


ACT  n]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  205 

ANTONIA 

Is  that  so?     He  didn't  tell  me. 

ROGER 

He  must  have  forgotten. 

ANTONIA 

Where  was  it? 

ROGER 

At  Letrivier's. 

ANTONIA 

I  didn't  know  he  knew  Listel? 

ROGER 

He  must. 

ANTONIA 

Hear  anything  interesting?  It  must  have  been  lively 
if  Listel  was  there. 

ROGER 

It  was.    You  knew  Listel  in  Edinburgh,  didn't  you? 

ANTONIA 

Yes,  in  Edinburgh.     Why  ? 

ROGER 

It  seems  he  was  witness  of  a  tragedy  in  which  you 
were  concerned,  when  you  were  in  Scotland.  You 
never  told  me  about  that.  I've  been  learning  things 
about  you  that  are  anything  but  pleasant. 

ANTONIA 

If  people  must  tell  things  of  that  kind  about  me,  I 
am  surprised  that  they  do  so  in  your  presence,  and 
also  that  you  would  allow  them  to  be  repeated. 

ROGER 

I  understand,  but  Listel  was  clever  about  it.  To  be- 
gin with,  he  pretended  that  there  was  not  the  slight- 
est intimacy  between  you  and  me,  so  that  he  could 
say  the  vilest  things  in  the  most  casual  and  off-hand 


206  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

wa3\  You  know,  you  admire  the  way  he  handles 
things!  Well,  you  can  judge,  by  the  way  he  speaks 
of  other  women,  how  he  disposed  of  you.  And  he 
made  no  exception  in  your  favor. 

ANTONIA 

Ha !  I  thought  that  Listel — there  goes  another  illu- 
sion ! 

ROGER 

Yes,  every  day  brings  its  trouble. 

ANTONIA 

But  you  might  at  least  have  defended  me  as  a  friend 
— if  you  could  not  as  a  lover ! 

ROGER 

Would  it  not  have  been  tantamount  to  a  confession 
if  I  had  tried  to  muzzle  that  gossip?  You  know,  in 
a  certain  class  of  society,  even  among  the  best  in 
Paris,  we  don't  try  to  defend  our  friends.  That 
would  stop  all  conversation,  and  simple  friendship  as 
an  excuse  in  a  gathering  of  that  sort  would  scarcely 
prove  valid.  How  many  times  have  you  put  me  on 
my  guard  against  my  compromising  Don  Quixot- 
ism.'' You  are  very  particular  about  appearances, 
and  out  of  consideration  for 

ANTONIA 

And  then  you  were  no  doubt  not  at  all  sorry  to  learn 
what  you  did.''  You  allowed  him  to  continue,  did 
youi' — What  did  he  say.'' 

ROGER 

Be  patient.  Do  you  remember,  five  months  ago  at 
Venice,  one  night  when  Pierre  and  Juliette  were  din- 
ing with  you — you  asked  Listel,  too ;  he  left  imme- 
diately after  dinner. 


ACT  n]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  207 

ANTONIA 

He  was  going  to  the  Fenice — yes,  I  remember. 

ROGER 

That  evening  when  we  were  alone  you  told  me  that 
you  married  very  young;  he  was  a  man  much  older 
than  you  and  you  accepted  him  against  your  will. 
He  mistreated  you;  then  he  met  a  tragic  end;  com- 
mitted suicide  during  an  attack  of  fever.  Isn't  that 
what  you  told  me? 

ANTONIA 

Yes,  that  was  what  I  told  you. 

ROGER 

To-day  I  learned  that  Madame  de  Moldere  is  not 
your  real  name  and  that  your  husband  is  still  liv- 
ing. You  are  not  a  widow,  but  a  divorced  woman, 
and  the  divorce  was  obtained  at  his  instigation,  be- 
cause of  certain  things  which  you  know  as  well  as  I. 

ANTONIA 

{Haughtily)     Is  that  all.'' 

ROGER 

That  is  enough !  I  remember  that  evening  in  Venice, 
I  recall  every  detail,  even  your  very  Avords :  "Can 
one  be  gay  in  the  presence  of  a  sunset,  or  can  one  tell 
a  he  in  the  melancholy  splendor  of  sleeping  Venice?" 
— ^And  you  did  lie !  Yet  I  asked  nothing  of  you,  you 
had  only  to  remain  silent.  But  no,  you  insisted  on 
telling  me  your  so-called  story  of  your  life — and 
what  a  story !  You  put  out  the  lamp,  took  my  hand 
in  yours,  and  spoke  in  an  undertone,  in  the  dark. — 
You  lied  the  way  people  confess. 

ANTONIA 

This  is  infamous  !    I  won't  answer  you ! 


208  TPIE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  ii 

ROGER 

You  have  nothing  to  say  for  yourself. 

ANTONIA 

I  have,  but  I  see  it  wouldn't  do  a  particle  of  good  to 
say  it;  you  believe  the  libels  of  Listel  and  will  re- 
fuse to  believe  me.  Did  Listel  also  tell  you  that  he 
made  violent  love  to  me,  that  I  refused  to  become  his 
mistress,  and  that  he  invented  that  whole  story 
merely  out  of  revenge?  I  have  a  large  packet  of  his 
letters  in  my  desk — ^liigh  as  that !  He  implored  me — 
I  can  show  you 

ROGER 

I  know,  I  know. — Never  mind. 

ANTONIA 

You  know  very  well  that  the  world  makes  a  great  deal 
out  of  the  most  harmless  little  adventure,  and  in- 
vents any  number  of  versions  of  the  story.  One,  for 
instance,  is  indulgent  in  tone,  the  others  are  more  or 
less  venomous.  Without  the  slightest  provocation 
you  accept  the  least  favorable.  I  might  have  ex- 
pected that:  you  are  my  lover! 

ROGER 

Unfortunately  for  you,  there  were  certain  details, 
certain  facts  which  were  so  precise  that  they  could 
not  have  been  invented. 

ANTONIA 

What  can  I  do.''  No  matter  what  I  tell  you  now,  you 
will  refuse  to  believe.  I  told  you  that  I  had  had  a 
lover. 

ROGER 

Yes,  but  you  told  me  that  it  was  after  your  hus- 
band's death,  while  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  the 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  209 

cause  of  your  divorce.  Your  husband  is  still  living, 
too. 

ANTONIA 

He  seems  dead  to  me. 

ROGER 

Undoubtedly — and  to  me  as  well  because  I  have 
never  known  him !  But  evidently  you  don't  see  the 
point ;  you  don't  answer  my  questions  directly.  You 
have  no  idea  what  rights  you  have,  nor  what  duties. 
I  know  your  husband  was  a  good-for-nothing;  that 
you  had  a  lover  was  excusable,  you  were  practically 
forced  into  it.  That,  I  say,  does  not  concern  me.  I 
have  already  told  you  that  I  consider  I  have  no 
rights  over  your  past,  I  asked  nothing;  but — and 
this  I  do  blame  you  for — why  did  you  lie,  and  ar- 
range such  a  setting  for  the  telling  of  your  lies.'' — 
That  makes  it  much  worse. 

ANTONIA 

You  are  right ;  yet  that  evening  I  intended  to  tell  you 
everything.  I  swear  it,  on  my  life !  But  somehow 
the  moment  I  came  to  the  point  of  confessing  I  was 
so  ashamed 

ROGER 

Why.? 

ANTONIA 

Why !  Because  I  love  you,  and  I  didn't  have  the 
courage.  It's  like  people  who  decide  to  commit  sui- 
cide: they  take  the  revolver,  put  the  barrel  to  their 
temple,  but  cannot  pull  the  trigger.  At  that  mo- 
ment I  invented  some  story  or  other.  Yes,  in  the 
presence  of  the  splendor  of  that  serene  night,  I  could 
not  bare  to  you — even  though  it  was  in  the  past — a 


210  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

soul  that  was  not  in  harmony  with  our  love  and  that 
city  sleeping  under  a  heaven  sprinkled  with  stars. 

ROGER 

You  wanted  to  confess  in  a  beautiful  setting.  Only, 
after  telHng  me  that  the  night  was  too  beautiful  to 
lie,  you  tell  me  now  that  it  was  too  beautiful  not  to 
have  lied.    You  really  must  decide  which  it  was ! 

ANTONIA 

I  know,  it  was  not  logical,  but  what  had  logic  to  do 
with  it.?  Every  woman  would  understand  that!  We 
are  not  altogether  responsible  when  we  are  with  the 
man  we  adore,  and  there  are  circumstances  under 
which  we  tell  not  so  much  what  has  actually  hap- 
pened as  what  we  wish  might  have  happened. 

ROGER 

But  what  about  me  in  all  this.? 

ANTONIA 

You  are  right,  there  arc  nuances  which  men  can- 
not comprehend.  I  realize  that  you  have  no  more 
faith  in  us ;  you  see  only  lies,  brutal  infamous  lies. 
You  fail  to  inquire  whether  I  was  really  to  blame. — 
It  was  because  I  loved  you  too  much ! 
l^She  sobs  quietly. 

ROGER 

Yes,  there  arc  subtleties  wliicli  are  beyond  me.  But 
I  understand  your  motives — I  should  not  have  done 
as  you  did,  but  I  see  how  and  why  you  behaved  that 
way.  There  has  been  a  tragedy  in  your  life,  a  scan- 
dal, you  were  afraid  I  might  hear  of  it  some  day — 
as  I  have — and  in  order  to  ward  off  the  desire  to  ask 
you,  you  anticipated,  and  told  me  your  own  version, 
making  your  part  as  attractive  as  possible — natu- 
rally.    Tliat  is  the  true  explanation.     But  i3ut  your- 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  211 

self  in  my  place:  imagine  my  coming  from  that 
lunch,  absolutely  dumbfounded !  And  remember  that 
if  you  had  not  told  me  anything,  these  stories  of 
Listel  would  not  have  troubled  me  in  the  least.  Now 
I  have  to  admit  that  stories  to  which  only  yesterday 
I  should  have  turned  a  deaf  ear,  give  me  great  anx- 
iety, assume  large  proportions — that  is  what  is  irrep- 
arable. 

ANTONIA 

What  did  he  tell  you.'' 

ROGER 

Nothing — no,  no ! 

ANTONIA 

Listen  to  me:  I  promise  not  to  interrupt.  It  was 
wrong  of  me,  altogether  wrong.  I  can  see,  too,  how 
all  this  has  hurt  you.  You  must  be  suffering  terri- 
bly, I  know  that,  but  never  doubt  for  a  second  that 
I  love  you!  Forget  that  night  and  remember  only 
the  other  nights  in  Venice,  and  our  summer  in  Brit- 
tany, and  yesterday,  here,  what  lovers  we  have  been ! 
Why  should  people  meddle  in  our  affairs !  Can  they 
never  leave  us  in  peace.''  The  human  race  is  dis- 
gusting; I  detest  society  and  loathe  Paris.  Let  us 
go  away  for  a  few  days,  anywhere,  alone,  all  alone. 
I  need  you  near  me,  I  must  take  you  from  this  vile 
atmosphere!  I  want  to  see  countries  covered  with 
snow!  Norway  must  be  magnificent  in  winter.  The 
awful  globe-trotters  are  there  only  in  summer — will 
you? 

ROGER 

No.     I  leave  to-morrow. 


212  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

ANTONIA 

I  had  forgotten.  That's  too  bad!  Where  are  you 
going? 

ROGER 

To  Algiers ;  my  brother  is  very  sick.  I  had  a  letter 
from  my  sister-in-law,  telling  me  to  come — he  wants 
to  see  me  very  much. 

ANTONIA 

Take  me  with  you. 

ROGER 

Impossible,  dearest.  To  begin  with,  the  Mediter- 
ranean is  very  stormy  just  now,  and  then  my  brother 
lives  in  the  country.  They  wouldn't  be  prepared — I 
should  have  to  leave  you  at  a  hotel — that  wouldn't 
be  at  all  amusing  for  you. 

ANTONIA 

I'll  be  all  alone.     Will  you  be  gone  long? 

ROGER 

That  depends. 

ANTONIA 

I  see. — Listen  to  me:  to-morrow  you  must  lay  aside 
all  day  and  all  this  evening.  I  can't  leave  you  now, 
and  I  want  to  be  near  you  till  the  moment  you  go. 

ROGER 

Do  you? 

ANTONIA 

I  do.  You'll  take  me  to  dinner  somewhere,  and  then 
we'll  go  to  hear  some  music.  I  must  hear  music  with 
you.  What  is  at  the  Opera  to-night?  La  Juive? 
No!  Not  that!  At  the  Opera-Comique?  Werther? 
I  prefer  that!  I'll  go  and  get  ready  at  once,  and 
Rosalie  shall  telephone  for  a  box. 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  213 

\^She  starts  for  her  boudoir,  as  Mademoiselle  Cen- 
drier  appears. 

MADEMOISELLE   CENDRIER 

Madame,  I  can  do  nothing  with  Mademoiselle  Yvette. 
She  clung  to  the  bed  curtains  and  then  climbed  up 
on  top.     I  can't  make  her  come  down ! 

ANTONIA 

The  little  demon! 

MADEMOISELLE   CENDRIER 

And — I  don't  dare  tell  Madame — Madame  will  be 
very  much  put  out. 

ANTOXIA 

What  else? 

MADEMOISELLE  CENDRIER 

Mademoiselle  Yvette  broke  those  beautiful  vases  that 
were  on  the  mantel. 

ANTONIA 

I'm  so  glad,  they  were  atrocious !  Wait  a  moment, 
I'll  go  myself. 

\_Anfonia  goes  out.  While  she  is  gone  Roger  sits 
down,  takes  up  a  book  and  finds  among  the  leaves 
Pierre^s  photograph.  A  moment  later  Antonia  re- 
enters. 

ROGER 

While  you  were  gone  I  picked  up  a  book  to  read. 
See  what  I  found. 

ANTONIA 

Oh,  yes,  Pierre's  picture. 

ROGER 

So  I  see,  but  how  did  it  come  here.'' 

ANTONLV 

Juliette  came  to  see  me  the  day  before  yesterday  and 
left  it. 


214.  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  n 

ROGER 

I  didn't  think  you  were  in  the  habit  of  seeing  Ju- 
liette? 

ANTONIA 

I  don't  officially.  But  sometimes,  after  lunch,  she 
comes  to  see  me. 

ROGER 

Indeed. 

ANTONIA 

What's  the  matter? 

ROGER 

I  have  been  told  that  Letang  was  very  much  in  love 
with  you,  and  that  he  came  here  every  day.  Now  I 
find  his  photograph — will  you  tell  mc ? 

ANTONIA 

Who  told  you  that?  Nonsense!  He  was  here  to- 
day; didn't  I  say  so? 

ROGER 

You  did. 

ANTONIA 

He  came  at  five,  and  left  at  half  past — Listel.  and 
Madame  Danglejais  were  here  at  the  same  time. 

ROGER 

Yet  it  is  rather  strange ? 

ANTONIA 

What's  so  strange?  Juliette  called  on  me  the  day 
before  yesterday  and  left  the  picture.  Take  a  cab, 
go  and  see  her — she  lives  near  here,  Rue  Copernic — 
and  ask  her.  Juliette  is  Pierre's  mistress,  and  she 
adores  him.  She  has  no  interest  in  lying  to  save  me. 
Only  if  you  go  don't  take  the  trouble  to  come  back. — 
I  don't  like  that  sort  of  scene.  You  see,  if  the  most 
insignificant  detail  makes  you  so  excited ■ 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  215 

ROGER 

You  are  mistaken — what  scene  am  I  making?  I  am 
very  calm. 

ANTONIA 

That's  worse  still.  You  are  calm  because  you  are 
making  a  violent  effort  to  remain  calm. 

ROGER 

Precisely. 

ANTONIA 

You're  pale  and  your  lips  are  dry.  Let  me  repeat: 
if  the  most  insignificant  detail  makes  you  so  excited, 
we  had  better  make  an  end  at  once.  This  is  simply 
ridiculous :  my  love  for  you  always  turns  against  me ! 

ROGER 

Against  you? 

ANTONIA 

Certainly.  Juliette  came  the  other  day,  showed  me 
the  photograph,  which  I  thought  a  good  one.  I 
wanted  to  show  it  to  you  and  then  have  you  go  to 
the  same  photographer.  See  how  foolish  I  am — be- 
cause I  haven't  a  single  nice  picture  of  you.  I  don't 
know  how  you  would  pose — you  always  look  like  a 
policeman.  (He  cannot  keep  from  smiling)  Are 
you  glad?    Do  you  beheve  I  am  telling  the  truth? 

ROGER 

You  speak  as  if  you  were.  But  truly  you  mustn't 
blame  me  too  much.  I'm  very  nervous  and  depressed. 
This  lunch,  and  the  telegram — a  nasty  day.  Oh,  I 
beg  your  pardon !  Well,  let  us  at  least  take  this  oc- 
casion to  straighten  matters  out  once  for  all.  (  With 
deep  feeling)  I  love  you,  Antonia,  but  if  you  love  me 
less  or  not  at  all,  be  frank,  I  beg  you ;  it  is  your  right 
— do  you  understand,  your  right? 


216  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  ii 

ANTONIA 

Why  do  you  say  that? 

ROGER 

Because  I  ought  to  tell  you.  If  you  speak  loyally 
you  will  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  You  are 
free  to  dispose  of  your  body  and  your  heart.  By 
your  position  in  society  you  are,  you  especially!  a 
free  woman !  Don't  resort  to  deceit  and  falsehood, 
they  are  the  weapons  of  slaves !  I  understand  that 
servitude  and  dissimulation  are  a  part  of  the  very 
blood  that  runs  in  the  veins  of  women,  but  it  rests 
with  such  women  as  you — superior  women,  you  are 
called — to  root  out  this  evil  heritage.  You,  you, 
Antonia,  cannot  lie  like  a  common  hourgeoise  who 
deceives  her  husband,  or  a  little  grisctte  who  wants 
to  amuse  herself  from  time  to  time  while  remaining 
with  her  "serious"  lover. 

ANTONIA 

I  adore  you,  I  adore  you — you  have  no  idea  how 
much  I  think  of  you !  Hush  now,  jou're  too  con- 
vincing a  talker,  and  you'll  make  me  say  something 
foolish.  In  love  only  the  foolish  things  are  true  and 
remain  so ! 

ROGER 

Quick,  then,  get  dressed !  Both  of  us  need  fresh  air, 
and  music ! 

ANTONIA 

I  shan't  be  long.  {She  goes  into  her  houdoir,  the 
door  of  which  she  leaves  open)  Rosalie,  give  me 
my  mantle  and  my  jet  toque. 

[Still,  Roger  'walks  hack  and  forth,  a  prey  to 
thoughts  easy  to  divine. 


ACT  ii]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  217 

ROGER 

I  must  seem  absurd  to  you! 

ANTONIA 

{Still  in  her  boudoir)  Absurd  and  charming.  Yet 
you  are  by  no  means  a  fool,  and  you  are  so  Intelli- 
gent that  if  you  wanted  to  be  foolish  you  would  be 
more  absurd  than  anyone. — Come,  Rosalie,  quick! 

ROGER 

Well,  when  a  man  has  had  a  dispute  with  his  mistress, 
he  asks  himself  whether  he  has  been  necessarily  un- 
just or  idiotically  stupid — nasty  alternative!  Not 
at  all  convenient. 

ANTOXIA 

If  it  were  convenient,  what  would  become  of  the 
farce  ? 

ROGER 

It  is  a  quarter  to  eight  and  we  haven't  dined  yet. 

ANTONIA 

{Coming  forth)     Whose  fault  is  it.?     We'll  have  to 
miss  the  first  act.     This  is  the  way  people  are  always 
late  to  the  theater! 
\_Thei^  go  out. 

CURTAIN 


THIRD    ACT 

The  study  in  Roger's  home. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Roger  and  Clcmence,  an  old 
servant,  are  present.  Roger  sits  at  his  desk  opening 
mail. 

CLEMENCE 

Did  Monsieui"  have  a  pleasant  trip? 

ROGER 

Yes,  Clemence,  as  pleasant  as  possible  under  the  sad 
circumstances. — Tell  me,  any  news  while  I  was  away? 

CLEMENCE 

A  lady  called — twice.  She  insisted  so  on  seeing  Mon- 
sieur that  I  told  her  Monsieur  would  return  to-day 
at  two  o'clock.  She's  a  very  handsome  lady,  with 
such  a  sweet  face ! 

ROGER 

She  gave  no  name,  left  no  card?  You  should  have 
asked  her 

CLEMENCE 

I  did,  but  she  said  it  didn't  matter.  Will  Monsieur 
have  something  to  eat? 

ROGER 

No,  thank  you,  Clemence,  I  had  lunch  on  the  train. 

CLEMENCE 

And  I  put  on  the  stew,  in  case  Monsieur  might  like 
some  bouillon. 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  219 

ROGER 

No,  thanks ! 

CLEMENCE 

It's  very  good. 

ROGER 

No  doubt. 

CLEMENCE 

Too  bad ! 

ROGER 

Well,  if  you  Insist,  bring  me  some  tea. 

CLEMENCE 

At  once.  I  have  some  water  boiling  already.  (She 
goes  out  and  returns  a  few  moments  later,  carrying 
the  tea)  And  Monsieur's  brother?  How  sad!  How 
could  it  happen? 

ROGER 

Yes,  Clemence,  it  is  a  great  blow — he  died  just  a  week 
ago. 

CLEMENCE 

And  such  a  healthy  man !    What  did  he  die  of? 

ROGER 

For  some  time  his  heart  had  been  troubling  him,  and 
you  know  he  never  took  proper  care  of  himself !  He 
took  cold  baths  in  spite  of  the  doctor's  advice ;  three 
weeks  ago  he  did  this  and  had  a  stroke,  was  con- 
fined to  his  bed,  then  improved,  and  finally  went  from 
bad  to  worse. 

CLEMENCE 

Did  he  suffer  much? 

ROGER 

No — fortunately. 

CLEMENCE 

Did  he  realize  he  was  going  to  die? 


220  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  m 

ROGER 

I  don't  tliink  so,  even  tliough  he  was  conscious  to 
the  end.  Why,  the  day  before  he  died  he  mentioned 
you  to  me. 

CLEMENCE 

Is  that  so?  My  poor  little  Raymond;  I  was  there 
when  he  was  born — "my  prince,"  as  I  called  him! 
Did  he  speak  of  me  ? 

ROGER 

He  remembered  how  he  used  to  torment  you  when  he 
was  little. 

CLEMENCE 

He  was  a  little  demon — and  so  intelligent !  One  day 
I  asked  him  if  he  would  invite  me  to  his  wedding,  and 
he  said:  "No,  I  won't,  you  know  people  don't  ask 
servants  to  weddings,  only  to  funerals !"  Oh,  dear, 
I  can't  even  go  to  his  own  funeral!  (She  cries.  A 
bell  rings  in  the  antechamber)  There's  the  bell,  I'll 
open  the  door!  {She  goes  out  and  returns)  Mon- 
sieur, it's  that  lady. 

ROGER 

Ask  her  to  come  in.  (Clemence  goes  out  and  ushers 
in  Juliette)    What!    You,  Juhettc.? 

JULIETTE 

Yes,  it's  I.  How  are  you,  Roger.?  I  hope  I'm  not 
intruding?  I  called  here  twice  while  you  were  away. 
Your  servant  told  me  you  would  be  home  to-day  at 
two.  You  were  away  to  see  your  brother,  weren't 
you?     How  is  he? 

ROGER 

He  is  dead. 

JULIETTE 

You  poor  dear,  I  do  sympathize  with  you! 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  221 

ROGER 

But  how  are  you?     And  how  is  Pierre? 

JULIETTE 

Very  well.  I've  come  to  ask  a  favor  of  you,  or 
rather  some  advice,  but 

ROGER 

I  am  only  too  willing 

JULIETTE 

It's  this,  then. — You'll  not  think  me  foolish?  I'd 
like  to  work. 

ROGER 

Work?     Why? 

JULIETTE 

First,  in  order  to  occupy  m3^self — I  get  fearfully 
bored — then  to  make  money,  to  make  a  living. 

ROGER 

You  don't  need  to  do  that.  What's  the  trouble? 
Is  Pierre  in  financial  straits?  You  know,  of  course, 
he  can  come  to  me ! 

JULIETTE 

(Quicklp)  No,  no,  Pierre  is  all  right  so  far  as  I 
know. 

ROGER 

Well,  then,  why  do  you  have  to  make  a  living?  Leave 
that  to  others  who  must.    There  are  plenty  of  them ! 

JULIETTE 

I  know  that,  but  I  can't  always  count  on  Pierre.  He 
might  marry,  and  then — well,  if  we  were  ever,  for 
one  reason  or  another,  to  separate — separate,  you 
know ? 

ROGER 

Yes? 


222  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  iii 

JULIETTE 

What  was  I  sajing? 

KOGER 

That  if  you  were  ever  to 

JULIETTE 

Oh,  yes,  well  in  that  case  I  should  have  to  have  some- 
thing I  could  depend  upon,  shouldn't  I?  You  know, 
I'm  not  the  sort  of  woman  who  has  laid  by  annuities. 

ROGER 

I  know  that,  still  Pierre  would  never  think  of  allow- 
ing you  to  go  unprovided  for.  He  is  very  generous, 
he  would  see  to  your  future. 

JULIETTE 

Yes,  but  I  couldn't  think  of  accepting.  I  believe 
that  in  love  there  should  be  no  indemnities ;  we  have 
no  right  to  a  pension  as  old  employees  have.  The 
invalids  of  a  love  affair !    Ridiculous ! 

ROGER 

Well,  then.? 

JULIETTE 

I  am  looking  for  a  position.  There's  nothing  dis- 
honorable in  that,  is  there.? 

ROGER 

Quite  the  contrary! 

JULIETTE 

Because  I  refuse  to  be  driven  to  the  streets,  or  be 
forced  to  rely  on  any  man.  I  couldn't  do  that!  I 
simply  couldn't! 

ROGER 

There's  no  question  of  that  I 

JULIETTE 

One  never  can  tell.     So  I've  come  for  your  advice. 


ACT  m]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  223 

ROGER 

Advice  is  very  difficult  to  give.  For  instance,  what 
do  you  want  to  do? 

JULIETTE 

I  don't  know — I  think  I'd  like  to  go  on  the  stage. 

ROGER 

The  stage.?  Have  you  anj^  idea  what  that  means.'' 
You  ought  to,  you  have  tried  it  before.  A  manager 
will  give  you  two  hundred  francs  a  month  and  ad- 
vise you  to  get  some  one  to  support  you.  If  you 
don't  want  a  man  to  support  you,  you'd  better  keep 
clear  of  the  theater.     No,  not  that! 

JULIETTE 

I  might  be  a  modiste.'' 

ROGER 

Too  much  competition.  There  are  as  many  dress- 
makers as  there  are  customers.  Every  time  I  hear 
a  lady  who  is  complimented  on  a  dress  say,  "Yes, 
a  little  dressmaker  of  mine  made  it !"  I  see  a  room 
at  the  back  of  a  courtyard,  without  air,  without 
light,  where  the  little  dressmaker  is  starving  in  order 
to  make  pretty  gowns  at  starvation  wages  for  the 
beautiful  lady. 

JULIETTE 

Then  what  can  I  do.''  Can't  you  think  of  anything 
else? 

ROGER 

Yes,  I  know  of  a  very  good  position  for  a  woman,  at 
a  hundred  and  fifty  francs  a  month.  There  is  an  old 
lady,  very  good  and  charitable ;  she  is  an  invalid  and 
requires  a  secretary  to  visit  her  poor.  It's  a  weari- 
some job,  climbing  stairs  and  all  that;  but  the  lady 
is  so  charitable,  she  has  so  many  miserable  wretches 


22i<  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  m 

to  relieve,  that  her  secretaries  don't  object  to  the 
drudgery.  She  has  ah'eadj  had  three ;  two  fell  sick, 
but  the  other — who  was  wiser^gave  it  up  at  the  end 
of  two  weeks.  She  preferred  the  old  gentlemen  to  the 
old  lady.  And  yet  she  is  a  very  kind  and  considerate 
old  lady,  and  believes  that  she  pays  a  generous  sal- 
ary. A  hundred  .and  fifty  francs  a  month — that's 
the  sort  of  position  you  can  find ! 

JULIETTE 

Then  for  a  woman  like  me  there  remains  only  sui- 
cide or  a  lover.? 

ROGER 

Yes — but  you  haven't  got  that  far  yet.  Why 
worry,  so  long  as  Pierre ? 

JULIETTE 

That's  so. 

ROGER 

By  the  way,  I  was  going  to  ask  you:  did  you  leave 
a  photograph  at  Madame  de  Moldere's.^*     I  saw  it 

there You  don't  seem  to  know  what  I  refer  to.? 

Just  before  I  went  away  I  found  a  book  at  An- 
tonia's,  I  happened  to  open  it,  and  found  a  photo- 
graph of  Pierre.  She  said  you  left  it  for  her  to 
show  me.     {He  looks  at  her  intently)     You  didn't.? 

JULIETTE 

{Bursting  into  sobs)     No,  I  didn't! 

ROGER 

She  is  his  mistress,  isn't  she.? 

JULIETTE 

Yes,  she  is. 

ROGER 

Are  you  sure.?    Positive? 


ACT  m]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  225 

JULIETTE 

Am  I  sure !  Listen  to  me :  I  followed  Pierre  one  day 
— he  sees  Madame  de  Moldere  at  Number  Seventeen, 
Rue  de  Balzac,  first  floor.  He  rented  the  apartment 
under  an  assumed  name. 

ROGER 

My  God! 

[^He  falls  into  a  chair, 

JULIETTE 

I  beg  your  pardon,  it  was  wrong  of  me  to  tell  you. 
And — and  I  shouldn't  have  cried  like  a  little  school- 
girl.   But  I  couldn't  help  it ! 

ROGER 

No,  no,  it  was  right,  don't  feel  badly  about  it.  You 
were  right,  and  I  thank  you,  only,  wait — I  was  so 

overcome Never  mind,  I  jDrefer  the   truth  to 

that  awful  doubt  I've  felt  ever  since  I  discovered  her 
first  lie.  That  doubt  clung  to  me,  even  at  my 
brother's  bedside,  and  I  asked  myself:  "Where  is 
she,'^  What  is  she  doing?"  Now  it's  all  over,  I  feel 
strong  now,  I  can  face  her  when  she  comes — she  is 
coming,  any  moment  now.  The  first  thing  I  saw 
when  I  returned  was  a  charming  note  from  her,  so 
loving  and  tender !  When  I  was  away  I  telegraphed 
her  that  my  brother  was  dead.  She  wrote  me  won- 
derful letters  !     Here,  read ! 

\^He  takes  some  letters  from  his  pocket  and  hands 
them  to  Juliette. 

JULIETTE 

{Refusing  to  take  them)     No. 

ROGER 

Yes,  do,  they  are  worth  the  trouble.  (She  takes 
them)     Unbelievable,  isn't  it.''     Wouldn't  the  most 


226  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  hi 

suspicious  of  mortals  be  deceived?  Now  she  is  com- 
ing; she  will  pretend  to  be  the  same  as  ever.  How 
much  will  jou  wager  that  she  won't  be  in  deep  mourn- 
ing? She  will  console  me,  act  the  mother  to  me,  her 
sincerity  will  be  written  all  over  her  face.  What  a 
farce ! 

[He  strikes  the  table,  breaking  the  cup  into  which 
CUmence  had  poured  the  tea. 

JULIETTE 

(Starting)     Did  you  hurt  yourself? 

ROGEE 

A  little  cut.    Poor  little  tea  cup,  it's  not  your  fault. 
Do  you  know  what  that  is? 
\_He  points  to  the  fragments. 

JULIETTE 

(  Who  has  been  rather  frightened)    No. 

EOGER 

A  very  old  cup.  My  mother  and  grandmother  served 
bouillon  in  that  cup  at  their  respective  wedding  ban- 
quets— charming  old  custom.  For  the  last  ten  years 
Clemence  has  served  my  tea  in  it  every  morning. 
Now  it's  broken.  But  it  can't  blame  me,  for  these 
old  familiar  things  pity  us.  If  this  cup  could  speak 
it  would  say:     "Did  you  hurt  yourself,  my  child.?" 

JULIETTE 

Roger ! 

EOGER 

Don't  be  afraid,  I'm  not  mad,  I'm  not,  truly !  Now 
let's  talk  about  you.  What's  to  become  of  you?  Of 
course,  you're  not  with  Pierre? 

JULIETTE 

Oh,  no!  The  moment  I  had  absolute  proof  that  he 
was  unfaithful  to  me,  I  couldn't  stay  a  second  Ion- 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  227 

ger ;  that  very  evening  I  left.  I  had  felt  for  a  long 
time  that  he  was  changed,  that  I  bored  him.  Ever 
since  Venice  he  was  different,  but  he  didn't  want  to 
say  anything  to  me  about  it,  yet  it  wasn't  my 
fault 

EGGER 

How  is  that.'' 

JULIETTE 

I  always  kept  telling  him :  "If  you  don't  love  me  any 
more,  if  you've  had  enough  of  me,  tell  me.  I'll  go — 
no  trouble  at  all— I'll  kill  myself." 

KOGER 

Did  you  say  that.'' 

JULIETTE 

Yes,  but  you  know  how  weak  he  is !  He  swore  he 
loved  me.  You  were  speaking  of  your  doubts  just 
now.  Ha !  For  a  whole  year — ever  since  that  scene 
in  the  studio — he  told  you  about  that.''  when  I  shot 
him?  Well,  I  was  wrong  to  forgive  him,  for  ever 
since  I've  doubted  and  been  so  suspicious !  It's  been 
worse  than  agony  for  me.  It  has  been  one  long 
series  of  tortures.  I  haven't  been  able  to  think  of 
another  thing.  My  heart  beats  till  I  think  it  must 
surely  burst — just  as  if  I  were  living  at  a  furious 
rate,  while  I  wasn't  really  living  at  all !  Yes,  you 
were  right  just  now,  it's  better  to  know  the  truth, 
no  matter  how  shocking  it  is,  and  be  sure  that  it  is 
the  truth!  It's  a  relief,  something  soothing,  almost 
a  consolation. 
[^She  cries. 

EGGER 

It  is,  a  great  consolation.     {He  wipes  his  eyes,  tricing 


228  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  in 

to  hide  his  tears  from  her)  Wc  do  look  like  people 
who  are  consoled!    What  is  going  to  become  of  you? 

JULIETTE 

I  don't  know,  I  don't  know!  Tliat's  why  I  came 
for  advice.     But  you  say  I  can't  do  anything ! 

ROGER 

Did  Pierre  let  you  go,  this  way,  without ? 

JULIETTE 

No,  I  must  do  him  justice:  he  offered  to  give  me  any- 
thing I  wanted,  but  I've  just  told  you  how  I  felt 
about  that. 

ROGER 

I  can  understand  your  delicacy — it's  so  rare !  Yet  I 
see  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  accepted  some- 
thing, without  any  scruples  about  it.  You  are  no 
longer  very  young,  and  you  have  no  means  of  sup- 
port. 

JULIETTE 

Oh,  I  have  a  little — a  good  deal  in  fact,  and  I  needn't 
save  it,  for  I'm  not  going  to  wait  till  it  is  gone. 

ROGER 

What  do  you  mean.'* 

JULIETTE 

Look  at  me.  I'm  not  joking,  I  tell  you  in  all  seri- 
ousness :  I  am  going  to  kill  myself.  I've  had  enough 
of  this ! 

ROGER 

You  won't  do  anything  foolish  like  that  I 

JULIETTE 

It's  very  easy. — The  old  spirit  lamp  of  our  mothers ; 
I  don't  care  about  being  original.  It's  just  like  a 
little  shopgirl,  but  I  don't  want  to  suffer.  You  just 
go  to  sleep  and  don't  wake  up — it's  so  easy ! 


ACT  ni]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  229 

ROGER 

You  are  not  old !  Think,  you  have  all  your  life  be- 
fore you — you  will  get  over  this,  you  will  forget ! 

JULIETTE 

Do  you  think  I  could  forget? 

ROGER 

Of  course,  and  then  some  day  you  will  find  a  fine  man 
who  will  love  you  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved.  You 
have  a  very  tender  heart 

JULIETTE 

Much  good  has  it  done  me !  No,  I  think  that  that  is 
another  reason  why  I  can  never  be  happy.  Then — I 
always  told  Pierre  I  should  kill  myself. 

ROGER 

Is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  keep  your  word? 
I  know  very  well  you  told  him  that,  and  yet  you  won- 
der why  he  was  never  frank  with  you!  You  must 
confess  it  was  hard  for  him,  in  the  face  of  all  your 
threats ;  he  didn't  care  to  feel  responsible  for  your 
death — think  of  the  responsibility !  He  wanted  to — 
to  conciliate  your  happiness  and  his  own;  it's  the 
same  old  story.  Yes,  you  were  wrong  to  tell  him, 
and  you  would  be  still  more  in  the  wrong  to  carry 
out  your  threats.  To  begin  with,  you  haven't  the 
right,  no,  you  haven't  the  right. 

JULIETTE 

But  it's  my  affair,  mine  alone. 

ROGER 

You  mustn't  be  selfish;  think  of  others. 

JULIETTE 

I  have  no  relatives ;  I'm  all  alone. 


SaO  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  m 

ROGKR 

You  don't  understand.  I  mean,  think  of  all  the 
other  women  in  jour  situation.  You  have  no  right 
to  give  them  a  bad  example,  a  contagious  example. 
Yes,  contagious :  for  your  suicide  would  have  conse- 
quences you  never  dream  of,  make  no  mistake  about 
that.  Other  women  who  have  been  abandoned,  poor 
girls  who  might  otherwise  have  found  consolation 
elsewhere,  will  follow  in  your  steps.  You  have  no 
right  to  swell  the  number  of  sensational  paragraphs 
in  the  newspapers,  and  allow  your  example  to  lead 
other  love  affairs  to  so  tragic  an  end.  Think  of 
your  own  responsibility — do  3'ou  see.'' 

JULIETTE 

Yes,  I  see.  You  have  said  what  a  person  who  doesn't 
suffer  would  say  to  one  who  does.  I  should  like  to 
see  you  in  the  same  situation ! 

ROGER 

You'd  like  to  see  me ?  But,  my  dear  Juli- 
ette  ! 

JULIETTE 

That's  so!  My  dear  Roger,  forgive  me!  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  you — onl}^  of  myself.     Please  forgive  me. 

ROGER 

It's  so  natural!  But  do  you  think  I  don't  suffer? 
Do  you  think  I  find  life  sweet  now,  and  humanity 
pleasant  to  think  about.'*  No,  indeed.  Do  you  im- 
agine I  have  any  desire  to  live.''  If  I  wanted  to  do 
something,  could  I  not  choose  any  of  a  number  of 
violent  means.''  I  could  go  to  Pierre  and  challenge 
him — but  I  know  it's  not  his  fault,  poor  fellow !  He 
didn't  take  her,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  taken !  And 
as  for  her,  I  might But  no,  I  refuse  to  do  it. 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOIMAN  231 

for  all  those  reasons  I  told  you.  If  I  find  I  am 
going  to  suffer  too  cruelly,  I'll  go  away  to  peace 
and  solitude,  live  with  nature  where  all  sorrows  min- 
gle and  disappear,  because  our  greatest  sorrows  are 
our  smallest,  and  the  tiniest  corner  in  the  country 
is  plenty  large  enough.  Now  she  may  come;  I  feel 
strong,  sure  of  myself,  as  sure  as  anyone  could  feel 
under  the  circumstances.  You  have  done  that. 
When  I  tried  to  save  you,  I  saved  myself.  Ah, 
Juliette,  you  are  not  an  "intellectual,"  and  you  are 
not  a  revolutionary,  but  you  are  simple,  admirable, 
you  have  all  the  weakness  of  women,  but  at  the  same 
time  all  their  grandeur. 

JULIETTE 

I  am  a  poor  little  woman,  but  you  are  good — I  have 
confidence  in  you ! 

EGGER 

Then  promise  me  not  to  do  anything  foolish. 

JULIETTE 

I  can't  promise  anything;  I  don't  care  about  life 
any  longer. 

ROGER 

Remember  all  I  have  told  you;  when  you  think  it 
over  well,  I  am  sure  3'ou  will  be  reasonable.  At  least, 
promise  to  come  back  here  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Promise. 

JULIETTE 

I'll  do  that,  I  promise.  I'm  too  curious  to  know 
Avhat  happens  about  Antonia. 

ROGER 

See,  you  still  have  some  interest  in  life.?  By  the  way, 
have  I  your  permission  to  tell  Antonia  that  I  got  my 
information  from  you? 


232  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  hi 

JULIETTE 

Surely. 

ROGER 

Now,  go.  There's  no  use  in  your  meeting  her.  Au 
revoir — I'll  see  you  the  day  after  to-morrow.  You've 
promised  ? 

JULIETTE 

I  have. 

[They  shake  hands  cordially,  and  Juliette  goes  out. 

Roger  rings  and  Clemence  comes  in. 

CLEMENCE 

Did  Monsieur  ring.? 

ROGER 

Yes.     Here,  Clemence,  take  that  away. 

CLEMENCE 

Oh,  Monsieur  has  broken  that  pretty  cup ! 

ROGER 

{Impatiently)  Yes,  yes,  I  have  broken  the  pretty 
cup !    Hurry,  now ! 

CLEMENCE 

(As  she  gathers  up  the  fragments  in  her  apron)  I 
heard  Monsieur  just  now,  he  was  talking  so  loud! 
That  awful  woman  made  Monsieur  very  angry!  I 
know  I  oughtn't  to've  told  her  when  Monsieur  was 
coming  home.  But  I  was  suspicious  of  her.  I 
couldn't  ever  remember  what  her  face  was  like! 

ROGER 

Quick,  now,  Clemence,  and  don't  talk  so  much.  You 
don't  know  what  you're  saying.     Now  leave  me. 

CLEMENCE 

Tut,  tut,  now — I'm  going. 

[She  goes  out.    When  he  is  alone  Roger  walks  about, 

re-reading  Antonia^s  letters.     Then  a  hell  rings  in 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  23B 


the  ante-chamber.     Clemence  opens   the  door  and 
announces : 

CLEMENCE 

Monsieur,  ir  s  Madame  de  Moldere. 

ROGER 

Ask  her  to  come  in. 

\_Antonia  enters,  dressed  in  mourning. 

ANTONIA 

It's  I.     Were  you  expecting  me? 

ROGER 

Yes.     I  found  your  note  when  I  arrived. 

ANTONIA 

(Looking  at  him)  My  poor  dear,  how  pale  you  are ! 
You  look  so  tired ! 

ROGER 

I  am  tired,  very ;  and  it's  so  sad  outdoors,  so  cold ! 

ANTONIA 

Let  me  warm  you! 

ROGER 

I  need  it ! 

ANTONIA 

I've  thought  of  you  often,  especially  after  I  heard 
the  sad  news.  How  I  wanted  to  be  at  your  side ! 
The  death  of  dear  ones  is  frightful.  They  seem  to 
grasp  your  hand  and  want  to  take  you  with  them. 
But  at  such  moments  we  feel  the  need  of  some  one 
else  to  take  the  other  hand,  take  it  in  a  hand  that  is 
not  cold,  but  warm  with  tenderness.  Mine  should 
have  held  yours ! 

ROGER 

Yes. 


234  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  iii 

ANTONIA 

You  were  so  far  away,  so  far,  and  I  could  only  write 
to  you.  We  can  make  pen  and  ink  tell  so  little  of 
what  we  feel ! 

ROGER 

Your  letters  were  wonderful ! 

ANTONIA 

Wonderful,  no !     Merely  a  sweetheart's  letters ! 

ROGER 

That  is  what  I  meant. 

ANTONIA 

But  here  yon  are,  and  now  we  can  suffer  together.  I 
can't  think  what  sort  of  life  I  led  with  yon  away! 
I  saw  absolutely  no  one.  Sometimes,  in  the  after- 
noon, I  rode  in  the  Bois,  by  the  side  of  our  melan- 
choly little  lake.  I  never  went  out  at  night ;  I  stayed 
home  and  played  Werther  on  the  piano.  That  re- 
minded me  of  the  evening  we  were  together,  just  be- 
fore you  went  away.  I  imagined  I  was  still  at  your 
side.  I  used  to  play  the  part  we  love. 
\^She  plays  that  section  of  the  opera  which  is  marked 
on  page  63  of  the  score,  ''''lent,  tres  calme  et  contem- 
platif,"  as  far  as  "Charlotte  et  Werther  paralssent 
a  la  porte  du  jardin.'^  Meantime,  Roger  looks  in- 
tently at  her,  then  touches  her  lightly  on  the  shoid- 
der. 

ROGER 

Stop  !     You're  tired ! 

ANTONIA 

No,  I'm  not.    Wh}'  do  you  say  that,  dearest? 

ROGER 

Because  I  pity  you.    I  might  let  you  go  on  that  way 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  235 

indefinitely — you  would  play  the  whole  score.  I  feel 
sorry  for  you. 

ANTONIA 

{Surprised)     I — I — I  don't  understand. 

ROGER 

You  will.  You  did  not  only  go  to  the  Bois  during 
my  absence,  by  our  little  melancholy  lake !  Didn't 
you  also  go  to  Seventeen,  Rue  de  Balzac.'' 

ANTONIA 

{Rising)     Why,  yes,  I  did. 

EGGER 

What  were  you  doing  there? 

ANTONIA 

I  shan't  answer.  You've  spied  on  me,  as  if  I  were 
a  servant! 

ROGER 

When  a  woman  like  you  lies  like  the  worst  of  ser- 
vants one  has  the  right,  I  should  think,  to  have  her 
followed. 

ANTONIA 

I  can  see  no  excuse  for  it. 

ROGER 

Yes,  I  know,  I  know!  A  man  is  always  a  brute  when 
he  uses  your  own  weapons  against  you — and  in  the 
same  identical  circumstances.  But  all  that  is  at 
an  end;  now  it's  time  to  change.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  did  not  have  you  followed;  I  don't  do  things 
like  that.  I  did  not  have  to  look  for  proofs  of  your 
unfaithfulness,  they  have  been  brought  to  me.  You 
knew  that  sooner  or  later  bad  news  would  come 
without  looking  for  it.  It  was  Juliette,  who  just  left 
here,  who  followed  Pierre ;  she  saw  him  enter  num- 
ber seventeen,  Rue  de  Balzac,  an  apartment  where 


236  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  in 

you  met  him.  (A  long  pause)  Why  did  you  do 
that?  When  I  found  that  photograph  at  your  home 
the  night  before  1  left,  wliich  you  told  me  Juliette 
loaned  you  in  order  that  I  might  see,  you  told  one 
of  those  classic  lies  which  any  woman  would  have 
told  under  the  circumstances.  The  fact  that  I 
found  a  photograph  at  your  home  which  you  tried 
to  hide,  put  me  in  the  wrong.  I  took  the  offensive, 
and  you  defended  yourself  as  best  you  could.  You 
couldn't  then  and  there  have  told  me  that  you  loved 
my  friend;  I  surely  couldn't  have  asked  that!  You 
were  far  too  compromised  to  admit  that.  But  when 
I  asked  you  whether  you  didn't  love  me  any  more, 
why  did  you  insist,  and  so  passionately?  Why  did 
you  still  play  the  ghastly  comedy? 

ANTONIA 

What ! 

EOGER 

Yes,  comedy.  It's  astonishing  how  words  seem  to 
shock  you.  That's  precisely  the  word.  Yet  I  ex- 
plained that  it  was  your  right  not  to  love  me  any 
longer;  you  knew  very  well  that  you  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  me — anger,  spite,  revenge.  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me?  It  was  so  simple.  Ha,  ha!  It  was  too 
simple !  Why,  if  the  man  you  no  longer  love  doesn't 
turn  into  a  poor  devil  on  his  knees  before  you,  or  a 
ferocious  beast,  you  think  you  haven't  succeeded! 
Your  role  didn't  satisfy  you!  The  prospect  of  a 
separation  without  tears  and  screams — in  other 
words,  without  a  drama,  didn't  appeal  to  you.  My 
resignation  offended  you. 

ANTONIA 

Stop  it!     You  don't  know  what  you're  saying.     I 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN         "  237 

know  what  your  resignation  is.  You  think  I  like 
dramas,  but  I've  had  enough  in  my  life.  You  are 
very  clever  at  explaining  what  went  on  in  my  mind — 
I  know  that  better  than  you,  perhaps,  and  I  tell  you 
you  are  sadly  mistaken.  I  did  not  think  of  myself 
then,  I  thought  of  you. 

ROGER 

You  were  sorry  for  me. 

ANTONIA 

Yes,  I  was  sorry  for  you,  and  afraid  for  you 

ROGER 

Go  on. 

ANTONIA 

That  you  might  suffer  too  much. 

ROGER 

Even  if  I  were  to  die,  that  would  not  be  your  affair. 

ANTONIA 

But 

ROGER 

No,  it  was  not  your  affair.  It  was  mine,  and  mine 
alone.     So  much  the  worse  for  the  vanquished. 

ANTONIA 

Now  you're  talking  nonsense.  I'll  grant  you  were 
sincere  when  you  told  me  of  your  resignation,  but 
if  I  had  told  you  then  that  my  heart  belonged  to 
some  one  else 

ROGER 

Your  heart !     Ha ! 

ANTONIA 

You  see,  you  would  have  raged  about,  cried — your 
vanity  would  have  suffered — look  at  you  now ! 


238  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  m 

ROGER 

(Angrily)  I  have  no  pride ;  I've  often  told  you  that. 
Let  the  whole  world  know  what  sort  of  woman  you 
are,  how  can  that  affect  me?  You  seem  to  triumph 
over  me  because  I  am  angry,  but  what  makes  me,  if 
you  want  to  know,  is  the  way  you  came  in  just  now: 
your  mourning,  Wertlicr,  your  letters  I  was  re-read- 
ing before  you  came,  that  you  had  the  impudence 
to  write  and  that  I  read  so  lovingly,  while  you  were 
in  the  Rue  de  Balzac  with  Pierre,  making  fun  of  me, 
perhaps!  I  was  ridiculous,  wasn't  I?  To  love  you, 
have  faith  in  you,  at  the  precise  moment  when  you 
were  saying  the  same  burning  words  to  him,  while  you 
were  in  his  arms,  while  you  were  all  to  him  that  you 
had  once  been  to  me ! 

ANTOXIA 

No,  no,  that's  not  true !    It's  not  true ! 

ROGER 

Oh,  3^ou  deserve ! 

\^Hc  takes  her  hy  the  throat  and  throxos  her  brutally 
to  the  floor. 

ANTONIA 

Kill  me !    You  have  the  right ! 

ROGER 

(Releasing  his  hold)    No,  I  haven't  the  right.    Don't 
tempt  me.    Now  go.    I  was  mad — good  God !    Go. 
\^A  pause. 

ANTONIA 

(Going  to  him)     Roger. 

ROGER 

Yes.? 

ANTONIA 

You  despise  me. 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  239 

ROGER 

No,  I  don't  despise  you.  Now  it's  all  over.  I  don't 
hate  you,  and  I'm  not  angry.  Oh,  if  you  had  only 
been  open  with  me  when  I  asked  you  to,  I  might  have 
been  your  friend,  or  if  I  could  not  have  been  sure  of 
myself  as  a  friend,  I  should  at  least  have  been  able 
to  keep  a  tender  memory.    Now  I  ask  only  to  forget. 

ANTONIA 

You  blame  me  for  not  having  told  you  that  I  loved 
another  man,  but  what  could  I  do?  I  didn't  love 
him,  and  I  never  loved  anyone  but  you,  you  alone, 
do  you  hear?  No?  Then,  if  I  didn't  love  you,  why 
did  I  stay  with  you,  alone  in  the  country,  for  a  whole 
summer,  seeing  only  you,  and  feeling  so  lonely  when 
you  happened  to  be  away  for  an  hour?  Why  did 
you  make  me  so  much  your  own  that  we  thought  the 
same  thoughts,  and  often  said  the  same  things? 
Why  did  the  most  commonplace  incidents  that  had 
to  do  with  you  make  me  cry?  I  loved  you  like  a 
child;  you  know  that — but  you  were  in  reality  my 
master.  You  don't  remember  those  nights  in  Venice 
when  I  was  so  pale  you  thought  I  was  going  to  die ! 
And  here,  too,  how  often  I  came,  intending  to  stay 
only  five  minutes,  and  we  were  together  for  hours, 
saying  profound  nothings !  The  darkness  came  and 
covered  us,  and  we  clung  to  each  other  desperately. 
There  are  at  least  certain  things  that  don't  lie ! 

ROGER 

{DrT^ly)    And  where  does  Pierre  come  in? 

ANTONIA 

I  don't  know.  Don't  mention  his  name  to  me !  I'm 
ashamed  of  myself  and  horrified  at  him.  That's 
over  with,  all  over,  I  swear — — 


2i0  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  m 

KOGER 

Why  idid  it  ever  begin? 

ANTONIA 

Why?     Why?     I  don't  know. 

KOGER 

But  if  you  love  me  as  you  say  you  do,  I  implore  you 
to  be  frank.  Why  did  you  consent  to  become  his 
mistress? 

ANTONIA 

Don't  ask  me — I  don't  know.  (She  tries  to  find 
words  to  describe  her  sensations)  Something  un- 
conscious, irresistible,  impelled  me,  it  was  like  a 
whirlwind — and  curiosity,  yes,  that's  it — I  think — 
it's  mad,  absurd,  I  don't  dare  tell  you  now.  Don't 
look  at  me  like  that.  My  God,  how  ashamed  I  am! 
Because  Juliette You  know,  in  the  studio — be- 
cause she  fired  on  him!   - 

ROGER 

This  time  you  have  told  the  truth.  If  such  an  inci- 
dent, which  is  more  absurd  than  tragic,  can  affect 
you  in  that  way  and  make  you  quite  mad,  then  you're 
not  in  the  least  interesting.  You  remind  me  of  a 
barmaid  I  once  knew  a  long  time  ago,  in  the  Latin 
Quarter.  She  fell  in  love  with  a  friend  of  mine  be- 
cause he  didn't  smoke  his  cigarettes  down  to  the  tip. 
He  took  two  or  three  puffs  and  then  threw  the  ciga- 
rette away.  For  that  woman,  it  was  a  touch  of  the 
Orient.  You're  offended,  but  the  cases  are  similar. 
One  man  appeals  to  you  because  his  mistress  fired 
on  him,  another  because  he  fired  on  his  mistress,  a 
third  because — I  don't  know.  And  when  you  are 
troubled,  you  must  have  the  man  who  causes  you  the 
trouble.     You  must,  because,  in  the  case  of  women 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  241 

like  you,  the  heart,  brain,  and  the  rest,  are  so  inti- 
mately connected  with  one  another,  that  really  I 
doubt  whether  you  can  distinguish  them.  In  order  to 
satisfy  your  curiosity,  your  caprice,  you  lie,  deceive, 
try  to  brave  it  out,  behave  like  the  lowest  of  street 

walkers — yes,  3'^ou,  Antonia And  so  you  dance 

through  life,  depending  only  on  your  sensations, 
your  self. 

ANTONIA 

Self-dependence  is  sometimes  the  worst  sort  of  de- 
pendence. 

KOGER 

So  it  seems !  You  poor  free  woman,  you  ate  a  sen- 
timental weathercock ! 

ANTONIA 

(Kneeling)  You  have  the  right  to  talk  to  me  that 
way.  You  hate  me,  you  mistreat  me,  and  yet  I  ad- 
mire you,  I  adore  you,  I  feel  instinctively  that  you 
are  my  master.  That's  the  truth,  the  sad  truth.  I 
loved  you  always,  but  my  heart  was  like  a  piece  of 
changing  silk,  and  when  he  was  there,  I  felt  troubled ! 
You  shouldn't  have  left  me  alone !  Why  didn^t  you 
take  me  with  you.'*    I  asked  you  to. 

ROGER 

But 


ANTONIA 

{Tearfully)  I'm  a  poor  silly  creature,  I'm  weak, 
easily  influenced.  I'm  so  sorry — I  was  just  caught 
up  and  whirled  on  and  on.  I'm  terribly  ashamed ! 
You  can't  leave  me !  I  don't  know  what  to  do !  Pity 
me,  you  must  direct  me,  you  alone  can  cure  me,  save 
me  from  myself.    Don't  condemn  me ! 


242  THE  FREE  WOMAN  [act  m 

KOGER 

I  don't  condemn  3^ou.  But  you  must  let  some  one  else 
cure  you,  bring  you  back  to  yourself.  It  is  not  my 
place  to  do  that.  To  begin  with,  I  cannot — I  know 
too  much,  I  know  you  too  well.  Begin  again  a  life 
with  you  and  be  tormented  by  suspicions  and  doubts  ? 
That  would  be  a  living  hell!  No,  I  cannot!  Now 
you  must  go. 

ANTONIA 

You  won't  have  to  suspect  anything  now — you  can 
take  me  some  place  far  away.  I  want  only  you. 
We'll  live  in  some  solitary  little  place. 

ROGER 

Could  I,  even  in  the  desert,  keep  from  imagining 
things  and  being  tormented?  My  imagination  is  too 
well  trained. 

ANTONIA 

(At  Roger's  feet)  Then — it's  all  over  with  me! 
This  is  frightful.  I  can't  live  without  you,  I  can't ! 
Don't  go  away,  don't  leave  me !  You  mustn't !  Why 
didn't  you  kill  me  just  now — I  shouldn't  have  had  to 
suffer  this!     Now  what  can  I  do.'* 

ROGER 

{Gently  disengaging  himself)  Please!  Leave  me! 
I  have  already  told  you:  this  is  over.  It  was  alto- 
gether too  easy,  what  you  suggested.  You  sow  dis- 
aster everywhere  you  go — ruin  lives.  You've  sepa- 
rated Pierre  and  Juliette,  and  now  you  leave  Mm. 
People  suffer  because  of  you;  one  woman  wants  to 
die.  And  you  merely  say  your  heart  is  like  a  piece 
of  changing  silk!  If  everything  turned  out  well,  it 
would  not  be  fair.     You  see,  I'm  not  angry  in  the 


ACT  III]  THE  FREE  WOMAN  243 

least,  but  I  have  no  pity,  and — /  do  not  believe  you! 
Leave  me. 

ANTONIA 

When  I'm  dead,  then  you  will  believe  me! 
[She  clings  desperately  to  him. 

KOGER 

Stop  it !    If  you  refuse  to  go,  I  will.    Good-by ! 

ANTONIA 

Roger !    Roger ! 

\^She  screams  and  falls  fainting  to  the  sofa.  During 
this  last  scene  it  has  become  dark.  Clemence  rums 
in  carrying  a  lamp  which  illumines  the  stage. 

CLEMENCE 

What's  the  matter.''  Lord  in  Heaven,  the  poor  lady ! 
She's  dead ! 

EOGER 

Don't  shout  like  that — stop  it!  No,  she  is  not  dead 
— only  look  after  her.  Run  for  some  vinegar,  wa- 
ter, salts — I  don't  care ! 

CLEMENCE 

What's  the  matter  with  her.''    How  pale  she  is ! 

ROGER 

{Putting   on   his   hat   and   gloves)      I    think    she's 

fainted. 

\^He  goes  out. 

CURTAIN 


THEY! 

(Eux!) 

A  SAYNETE 
(1889) 


THEY! 

A  drawing-room  in  the  Hotel  Cosmopolite,  furnished 
in  the  Japanese  style.  The  furniture  is  upholstered 
with  bright-colored  goods,  richly  embroidered  in  fan- 
tastic designs.  Silk  lanterns,  covered  with  drawings  of 
animals  and  flowers,  are  hung  about  the  room.  Down 
stage  to  the  right  is  a  low  and  rather  long  sofa;  behind 
it  is  a  large  bouquet  of  various-colored  chrysanthe- 
mums in  a  vase.  There  are  doors  to  the  left,  the  right, 
and  at  the  back. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Helcne  enters  from  the  right,  in 
her  wedding  dress.  She  carries  a  bouquet  of  orange 
blossoms.  She  is  addressing  her  husband,  who  remains 
in  the  outer  hallway. 

HELENE 

No,  please — leave  me  alone.  I  want  no  one,  not  even 
you !  It's  onl}^  a  headache — let  me  rest — only  fifteen 
minutes — a  quarter  of  an  hour!  (^She  waves  to  him, 
then  sits  down  on  the  sofa)  At  last!  Here  at  least, 
I  can  pull  myself  together.  What  a  nerve-racking 
day !  How  commonplace  weddings  are !  First  the 
church,  the  torture  while  waiting  in  the  sacristy, 
then  the  lunch !  And  to-night,  the  Hotel  Cos- 
mopolite, of  course!  After  the  dinner  for  the  rela- 
tives, a  ball  for  the  friends !  All  this  excitement,  and 
all  these  people  I  don't  care  a  snap  for — ^how  dif- 


248  THEY! 

fcrent  from  the  romance  I  once  dreamed  of!  The 
private  Mass  at  midnight  in  the  family  chapel,  the 
priest's  intimate  and  invigorating  sermon — the  dear 
priest  who  knew  you  as  a  child — then  to  fall  into 
your  lover's  arms,  with  no  other  witnesses  of  your 
happiness  than  the  trees  of  the  old  park,  and  the 
moonlight  that  follows  you  as  if  you  were  a  fairy 

princess !     Ah ! 

[^Achille  rises  from  behind  the  chrysanthemums, 
which  have  concealed  him. 

ACHLLLE 

I,  too,  have  dreamed  of  a  wedding  less  banal,  Ma- 
dame. My  spirit,  nourished  on  the  essence  of  an- 
tiquity, thirsted  to  roam  the  streets  of  Paris,  sunlit 
like  some  ancient  city  of  Attica,  beneath  a  canopy 
of  sparkling  azure !  Slaves  dressed  in  short  robes, 
with  long  flowing  hair,  would  have  marched  before 

us,   bearing   symbolic    torches Pray   don't   be 

alarmed,  I'm  not  a  house-breaker;  I  have  a  bride 
waiting  for  me  in  the  next  room — then  behind,  a 
long  line  of  men  and  women,  garbed  in  lily-white 
gowns,  pink  gowns,  hyacinth  gowns,  crying,  "Hy- 
men !    Hymen !" 

HELENE 

{Interrupting)     Good-by,  Monsieur. 

\^She  rises,  makes  for  the  door  at  the  right,  and  goes 

out.    But  she  forgets  her  bouquet  on  the  sofa. 

ACIIILLE 

Are  you  going  so  soon?  Stay — only  for  a  moment! 
You  surely  have  time?  {After  Helene  has  disap- 
peared) Ah,  women  are  all  alike!  I  heard  her 
dream,  all  of  it:  the  family  chapel,  the  old  priest, 
and  the  moonlight.     I  did  not  interrupt  her,  /  at 


THEY!  249 

least  was  polite.  I  waited  until  the  end,  and  when  I 
wanted  to  tell  her  my  dream,  which  is  undeniably 
more  antique — "Good-by,  Monsieur!"  {He  catches 
sight  of  the  bouquet  on  the  sofa)  Ah!  She  forgot 
it!  And  on  this  of  all  nights!  How  stupid!  {He 
starts  to  put  the  bouquet  in  a  vase,  when  Helene  re- 
enters. 

HELENS 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur,  but  I  think  I  left 

ACHILLE 

{Giving  her  the  bouquet)  Here,  Madame.  As  I 
was  not  sure  when  you  would  return,  I  took  the 
liberty  of  putting  them  in  water. 

HELENE 

{Confused)  Really,  Monsieur,  you  are  too  kind! 
Good-by,  Monsieur. 

ACHILLE 

Believe  me,  Madame,  your  precipitous  exit  Is  a  poor 
way  to  thank  me.  But  I  understand:  I  must  have 
seemed  quite  mad  a  moment  ago? 

HELENE 

I  don't  say  that. 

ACHILLE 

Vulgar  ? 

HELENE 

Oh,  no  I 

ACHILLE 

Then — charming.'' 

HELENE 

No — extraordinary,  that's  all. 

ACHILLE 

I  was  waiting  for  that !    Extraordinary.    Now,  after 


250  THEY ! 

what  has  happened,  you  have  a  rlglit  to  know  my 
story. 

HELENE 

But,  Monsieur,  I  really  don't  think 

ACHILLE 

Oh,  you  need  liave  no  apprehension.  I  shall  tell  it, 
none  the  less,  because  I  insist.  {Helene  tries  to  go, 
but  he  detains  her)  You  see,  you  thought  you  were 
speaking  to  yourself  a  few  minutes  ago.  I  learned 
that  you  were  a  sort  of  victim — {She  sighs)  You 
see,  you  are  suffering.'*  Tell  me  your  troubles,  it 
will  relieve  you  to  have  them  shared. 

HELENE 

I  have  notliing  to  tell  you,  Monsieur.  You  are  tak- 
ing advantage  of  our  chance  meeting  which — which 
I  have  surely  not  sought.  If  I  spoke  of  certain 
things — personal  matters,  I  had  no  idea  you  were 
listening — and  now  you  ask  me  to  make  you  my  con- 
fidant ! 

ACHILLE 

But  I  did  not  come  here  to  listen  to  you,  Madame! 
I  came  here  before  you,  in  order  to  escape  from  my 
wedding,  which  is  now  taking  place  next  door  to  your 
own.  Mine  got  on  my  nerves — just  like  yours! 
Curiosity  does  not  draw  me  to  you,  but  a  great  bond 
of  sympathy,  a  sudden  and  deep-rooted  interest.  We 
need  no  introduction :  you  are  the  bride  next  door,  I 
am  the  bridegroom  next  door.  You  suffer.  So  do 
I.  We  come  together  this  evening,  like  two  wounded 
soldiers  on  the  field  of  battle.  You  are  married  to  a 
man  you  detest 


THEY!  S51 

HELENE 

Detest?  That's  saying  a  great  deal — we — we  have 
little  in  common,  that's  all. 

ACHILLE 

Same  thing. 

HELENE 

My  husband,  M.  Desbarres 

ACHILLE 

What!    Are  you  marrying  Desbarres? 

HELENE 

Yes,  do  you  know  him? 

ACHILLE 

Never  heard  of  him,  but  I  believe  it,  since  you  tell  me. 

HELENE 

My  husband,  M.  Desbarres,  is  like  so  many  men  now- 
adays :  horribly  material,  without  an  ideal  in  him. 
See  how  unhappy  I'm  bound  to  be,  for  I'm  very  ro- 
mantic and  sentimental.  I'm  telling  you  all  this  be- 
cause I  know  you  will  understand.  I'm  so  poetic,  it's 
really  a  disease.     I've  caught  poetry ! 

ACHILLE 

A  case  of  galloping  poetry ! 

HELENE 

That's  it.  So  bad  a  case  that  on  Spring  mornings 
in  the  country,  when  I  sit  at  the  piano,  I  open  wide 
all  the  windows  so  that  the  birds  in  the  trees  may 
sing  and  accompany  me. 

ACHILLE 

Very  pretty — why,  a  music  publisher  ought  to  dis- 
play in  his  window:  "Pink  Dreams  and  White  Li- 
lacs, easy  transcription  for  the  piano  and  goldfinch.'* 


252  THEY ! 

HELENE 

(Understood  at  last)  So  he  ought!  How  good  you 
are !  I  am  an  Autumn  woman :  everything  that  is 
vague,  floating,  unreal,  attracts  me  and  cncliants  me ; 
all  the  tints,  the  minors.  Don't  be  surprised  if  you 
find  me  sad.  You  know,  I  should  have  married  a 
poet  endowed  with  subtle  feelings ;  instead,  I  have 
taken  a  vulgar  merchant.  My  whole  life  is  broken, 
like  the  celebrated  vase 

ACHILLE 

Where  dies  the  famous  verbena.  Ah,  Madame,  how 
fortunate  it  is  we  have  met.  I  had  already  guessed 
what  you  have  just  told  me. 

HELENE 

Now  say  it's  commonplace  ! 

ACHILLE 

No,  only  I  could  foresee  it.  I  am  so  happy  about 
it  all!* 

HELENE 

You're  not  very  kind. 

ACHILLE 

No,  I  am  happy  because  I  find  in  you  a  sister  soul 
for  my  own.  For  long  I  cried  aloud  in  the  solitude : 
Spirit,  Sister-spirit,  art  thou  at  last  come.?  And 
here  you  are ! 

HELENE 

But  I'm  going. 

ACHILLE 

No!    You  wouldn't  do  that.? 

HELENE 

I  must.     Think  of  it — the  ceremony  is  about  to  take 
place — in  there !    My  husband  will  be  very  uneasy. 
*  An  untranslatable  pun  on  "Verveine"  and  "Veine." 


THEY!  253 

ACHILLE 

Desbarres   is   not   a  man   to    be   uneasy.      And   he 
wouldn't  leave  without  you. 

HELENE 

But  if  we  were  seen .'' 


ACHILLE 

Then  it  could  be  said  that  a  most  extraordinary 
thing  was  witnessed! 

HELENE 

Truly,  Monsieur,  that  doesn't  seem  a  sufficient  rea- 
son. 

ACHILLE 

But  there  is  no  danger.  You  will  notice  that  at  a 
ceremony  of  this  sort  there  are  always  two  kinds  of 
guests :  the  husband's  friends,  who  don't  know  the 
bride,  and  the  bride's  friends  who  don't  know  the 
groom.  So  that,  if  one  of  my  guests  sees  us,  he  will 
take  you  for  the  bride,  if  one  of  yours,  he  will  take 
me  for  your  bridegroom. 

HELENE 

No:  my  bride! 

ACHILLE 

Yes,  my  bridegroom.     No,  I  said  your  bridegroom ! 

HELENE 

Oh,  yes,  my  bridegroom ! 

ACHILLE 

That's  so. 

HELENE 

Good-by. 

ACHILLE 

No,  Madame,  you  can't  leave  me  this  way.  You  have 
told  me  your  story,  but  I  haven't  told  you  mine. 


254  THEY! 


HELENE 


I  am  willing  to  call  it  even. 

ACHILLE 

No,  no,  Madame.  No,  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  people 
who  meet  me  in  the  streets  saying:  "There's  the 
man — notice,  the  man — who  was  told  a  story,  and 
didn't  tell  one  in  return !" 

HELENE 

You  needn't  fear — I  shall  never  tell  anyone  about 
this. 

ACHILLE 

That  is  no  way  to  excuse  yourself.  I  promise  it 
shan't  take  long. 


HELENE 


{Firmly)     Quite  useless,  I  tell  you. 

ACHILLE 

Very  well,  I  shall  follow  you  if  you  refuse  to  listen 
to  me  here,  and  tell  everything  in  the  midst  of  the 
ceremony.     You  little  know  me ! 

HELENE 

Well  then,  tell  me,  but  be  quick  about  it ! 

ACHILLE 

{Motioning  her  to  a  chair)  The  man  before  you, 
Madame,  came  out  first  from  the  Ecolc  polytech- 
nique. 


HELENE 


{Quietly  ironical)    Of  course. 

ACHILLE 

Why  "of  course".? 


HELENE 


Everyone  knows  that  two  hundred  students  come  out 
first  from  the  Ecole  poly  technique.  Read  a  few 
novels,  and  you  will  learn  that. 


THEY!  255 

ACHILLE 

When  I  say  I  came  out  first,  I  mean  I  came  out  be- 
fore the  others,  a  long  tnne  before — I  was  expelled 
two  months  after  I  entered.  Now  you  will  under- 
stand that  I  am  not  bragging:  if  I  showed  some  op- 
position to  authority  and  dislike  for  the  abstract  and 
positive  sciences,  it  was  not  through  inability  on  my 
part. 

HELENE 

{Amiably)  I  don't  doubt  it  for  a  single  instant:  you 
do  exactly  what  you  please. 

ACHILLE 

Absolutely.  I  am  like  you,  a  being  of  dreams  and 
clouds.     In  a  word,  Madame,  I  am  a  poet. 

HELENE 

{Overwhelmed)     A  poet.'' 

ACHILLE 

Who  is  heartbroken  to  have  met  you  too  late. 

HELENE 

I  see :  you  are  not  marrying  the  lady  of  your  dreams.'' 

ACHILLE 

No. 

HELENE 

Yet  you  were  master  of  your  own  destiny.  You 
weren't,  like  me,  a  young  girl  surrounded  by  a  wall 
of  prejudices  and  family  conventions !  When  such  as 
I  give  their  hand  in  marriage,  we  are  oftener  than 
not  forced  to  do  so — but  men!  Then  you  have  ex- 
perience and  initiative,  while  we 

ACHILLE 

I  too,  alas,  was  like  you,  Madame,  imprisoned  within 
a  wall  of  prejudices  and  family  conventions.  Of 
course,  I  could  see  where  I  was  going,  better  perhaps 


256  THEY! 


than  you,  but — while  you're  making  love  you  don't 
sec  the  danger,  you  can't  realize  the  horror  of  the 
situation.  Then  you  always  console  yourself  with 
the  hope  that  the  fatal  day  will  never  come.  But  it 
does,  and  in  the  face  of  the  unspeakably  brutal 
reality,  stripped  bare  of  fancy,  you  are  struck 
dumb 

HELENE 

{Pensively)  Like  a  nightingale!  Yes,  the  mayor 
fulfills  his  gratuitous  but  frightful  functions  here  be- 
low. Not  at  all  like  a  dentist,  for  before  you  go  to 
him  you  know  what  a  toothache  you  have. 

ACHILLE 

{Dreamily)     Toothache — heartache 

HELENE 

How  I  pity  you.  Monsieur!    {She  rises)    Now  I  sim- 
ply must  go ;  everything  is  ready  for  the  ceremony 
in  the  next  room.    Now  I  have  to  leave  you — with  in- 
finite regret. 
\_She  sits  down  again. 

ACHILLE 

And  is  there  no  hope? 
\^He  takes  her  hand. 

HELEKE 

Alas! 

[^  short  pause. 

ACHILLE 

I  am  dreaming:  you  are  my  wife,  at  my  side  all  the 
livelong  day.    Like  you,  she  is  all  in  white. 

HELENE 

I  am  dreaming:  you  are  my  husband,  at  my  side  all 
the  livelong  day.    Like  you,  he  is  all  in  black. 


THEY!  25T 


ACHILLE 

At  your  side  I  seem  to  hear  the  wedding  Mass,  at 
the  Trinite!  Talazac  is  singing  the  0  salutaris,  and 
Johannes  Wolff  playing  the  violin.  Then  we  walk 
from  the  altar,  while  the  organ  plays  the  wedding 
march 

HELENE 

Mendelssohn's. — Just  like  mine!  At  your  side  I 
seem  to  hear  the  wedding  Mass.  Talazac  is  singing 
the  0  salutaris  and  Johannes  Wolff  playing  the  vio- 
lin  

ACHILLE 

At  what  church? 

HELENE 

Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. 

ACHILLE 

Good !  The  same  artists — and  it's  only  a  step :  Gare 
de  I'Est-Trocadero  'bus — they  got  there  at  once. 

HELENE 

strange. — And  after  the  Mass,  the  lunch  at  my 
mother's. 

ACHILLE 

Lunch  after  the  Mass  at  my  mother-in-law's.  And 
this  evening,  Hotel  Cosmopolite! 

HELENE 

The  dream  continues — the  nuptial  feast 

ACHILLE 

Same  menu,  I'll  wager?  (Both  take  menus  from 
their  pockets  and  read)    Bisque  renaissance. 

HELENE 

Truite  saumonee. 

ACHILLE 

Sauce  venitienne? 


258  THEY! 

HKLENE 

Venitienne! 

ACHILLE 

Quartier    dc    marcassin    a    la    Nesselrode.      Pou- 
lardes 

HELENE 

A  la  Wagram. 

ACHILLE 

Wagram.     Marqidse  au  Tcirsch. 

HELENE 

Bombe  Dame-Blanche. 

ACHILLE 

Gateau  Trois-Freres. 

ACHILLE  AND  HELENE 

(Together  and  very  rapidly)     Corheilles  de  fruits. 


bonbons,  petits  fours 


I 


ACHILLE 

(  Throwing  himself  at  Hclene^s  feet)  Oh,  I  love  you ! 
\^He  takes  her  hands  in  his. 

HELENE 

What  are  jou  doing? 

ACHILLE 

You  are  my  wife !  Yes,  I  love  you !  Be  kind  to  me. 
— Let  your  right  hand  not  know  what  your  left 
does! — The  dream  continues:  I  have  found  you  this 
evening,  and  you  are  all  in  white. 

HELENE 

And  you,  like  him,  are  all  in  black. 

ACHILLE 

Ah,  one  wedding  resembles  another 


THEY!  259 

HELENE 

Just  as  one  funeral  does  another 

ACHILLE 

Or  one  cold  bath  another.  If  you  had  only  married 
me,  how  happy  we  should  have  been !  By  now  we 
should  have  been  far,  far  away — In  a  little  white 
cottage  in  the  depth  of  a  wood !  The  long  walks  we 
should  have  had  together,  our  undying  love,  one  long 

waking  dream,  a  living  dream 

[^He  declaims: 

Come,  let  us  be  mad,  dear,  fantastic  and  blue ! 
Your  happiness,  dreamed   as   a   child,  has  come 

true! 
Your  beauty,  your  love  never-ending  will  teach 
The  two  of  us  lessons  'neath  willow  and  beech! 
I'll  take  you,   my   dearest,  without  your   trous- 
seau! 
Ah,  realized  dream !    How  like  Jean- Jacques  Rous- 
seau! 
l^She  rises. 

We'll  eat  bread  and  milk,  and  take  care  of  the 

poor, 
And  protect  the  sweet  flowers ;  you'll  like  that,  I'm 

sure? 
At  nighttime  we'll  sit  and  play  games  by  the  hour, 
Then  you'll  smile  and  be  haughty;  we'll  quarrel, 

may  be 
By  starlight,  and  then  make  it  up  playfully ! 
Thou  sweet  lotus  flower,  I'll  sit  all  the  day 
Making  sonnets  for  you — quite  a  la  Coppee! 
Then,  too,  we'll  read  plenty  of  novels,  you'll  see ! 
The  gorgeous  effusions  of  great  Pierre  Loti ! 
And  my  hands  in  yours — so  pale  lily-white — 


260  THEY! 

Will  clasp  you  so  close ;  oh,  I'll  hold  you  so  tight — 
Thus,  dearest,  we'll  spend  all  our  days  in  sweet 

bliss, 
Our  happiness  pure — and  our  lingering  kiss 
Will  mount  up  to  the  skies,  where  the  angels  will 

fear 
Competition  in  joy:  for  I'll  have  you,  my  dear! 


HELENE 

{Deeply  affected)     Ah,  that's  poetry! 

ACHILLE 

It  is. 

HELENE 

French? 

ACHILI.E 

Of  course. 

HELENE 

I  didn't  know — it  was  so  beautiful! 

ACHILLE 

Ah,  in  place  of  3^our   colorless   existence,   see ! 

Now  you  are  buried  alive  I 

HELENE 

That's  no  consolation. 

ACHILLE 

What  consolation  can  I  give  you?  Useless  con- 
dolences? When  we  are  confronted  by  great  sorrows 
we  should  be  as  silent  as  they.  We  can  grasp  the 
hand  of  a  friend  and  say: 

ACHILLE  AND  HELENE 

{Simultaneously,  as  they  clasp  hands)     Poor  dear! 

ACHILLE 

We  were  married  too  soon. 

HELENE 

Yet  we  were  in  no  hurry.    Now,  there's  no  remedy. 


THEY!  261 


ACHILLE 

{Forcefully)  No  remedy?  Doesn't  this  meeting, 
only  a  step  from  our  respective  wedding  ceremonies, 
look  like  Providence? 

IIELENE 

It  seems  dreadfully  ironical.  Ah,  if  it  had  taken 
place  only  twenty-four  hours  sooner !  Where  is  hap- 
piness now? 

ACHILLE 

It  depends  on  you  and  me. 

HELENE 


What  do  you  mean? 

ACHILLE 

Let  us  fly ! 


HELENE 


Together  ? 

ACHILLE 

Of  course.     We  always  think  of  the  simplest  things 
last. 


HELENE 


You're  mad.    You ?    Run  away  with  me? 

ACHILLE 

Yes. 


HELENE 


On  my  wedding  day?     People  don't  do  that! 

ACHILLE 

Then  what? 

HELENE 

Never ! — Farewell ! 

ACHILLE 

I  can't  leave  you  this  way,  and  allow  you  to  be 
plunged  in  unhappiness,  despair.  You  might  even 
kill  yourself!     Can  I  leave  you  in  the  arms  of  Des- 


262  THEY! 

barres,  whom  I  don't  know,  but  whom  I  hate  al- 
ready?   And  you  don't  love  him,  you  don't ! 

HELENE 

But  he  loves  me.  No,  I  couldn't  do  it !  I  couldn't 
think  of  deceiving  him  this  way  ! 

ACHILLE 

You're  not  deceiving  him:  he  will  know  all  about  it. 
He  won't  have  room  for  doubt  if  you  write  him:  "I 
don't  love  you.  I  am  going  away."  It's  as  easy  as 
breathing. 

HELENE 

It's  not  so  simple  as  all  that.  Think  of  the  obstacles : 
society,  my  honor,  my  integrity. 

ACHILLE 

Illusions,  all !  In  matters  of  happiness,  integrity  is 
not  the  shortest  distance  between  two  points.  Would 
you  prefer  me  to  kill  Desbarres.'* 

HELENE 

Heavens ! 

ACHILLE 

Or  would  you  rather  live  with  him  always — with  my 
image  in  your  heart?  (Sarcastically)  Now  that 
would  not  shock  society  so  much ! 


HELENE 


You  are  terrible ! 

ACHILLE 

Do  you  know  how  they  did  things  of  this  sort  five 
thousand  years  ago? 


HELENE 


(Losing  her  head)     No,  I  was  too  young! 

ACHILLE 

I,  the  primitive  man,  should  have  come  to  you,  with- 
out clothes 


THEY!  263 


HELENE 


{Modestly)  Oh,  Monsieur,  I  hope  at  least  you 
would  have  put  on  a  tiger's  skin  to  talk  to  me ! 

ACHILLE 

Possibly — I  don't  know. — Well,  I  should  have  come 
to  you,  the  primitive  woman,  having  read  the  love 
in  your  eyes,  and  I  should  have  carried  you  off. 


HELENE 


But  you  are  not  the  primitive  man. 

ACHILLE 

That  makes  no  difference !  What  are  civilization, 
laws,  customs.''  We  ought  to  obey  only  our  dreams. 
They  alone  are  out  of  time,  out  of  space.    Come ! 

HELENE 

{Overwhelmed)     I  cannot!     It's  impossible! 

ACHILLE 

Farewell,  little  white  cottage  in  the  heart  of  the 
wood,  long  walks,  sweet  conversations,  eternal  duet 
of  love,  the  life  of  dreams 


HELENE 


The  living  incarnation- 

ACHILLE 

Games  in  the  evening — 


HELENE 


Pierre  Loti !  Farewell. — Oh,  it's  horrible !  And  my 
husband — there — in  that  room!  He'll  come  to  find 
me 

ACHILLE 

{Tragically)  The  tiger  is  below,  growling  for  his 
prey. 

HELENE 

{Half  choired)  We  seem  to  be  acting  Hernani! 
{Music  is  heard  outside)    Do  you  hear.'' 


264  THEY ! 

ACHILLE 

What  is  it? 

HELENE 

The  horn. 

ACHILLE 

No:  the  last  bars  of  a  slow  waltz — or  else  the  lugu- 
brious crj  of  some  street  car  in  the  blackness  of  the 
night. 
l^TJie  sound  of  a  carriage  is  heard. 

HELENE 

Listen — they're  coming ! 

ACHILLE 

No,  it's  only  a  carriage  stopping  at  the  door.  It 
shall  carry  us  far,  far  away.  Come  as  you  are — it 
makes  no  difference. 

HELENE 

This  is  sheer  madness. 

ACHILLE 

No,  it's  thrilling.  Choose — {Pointing  to  the  door 
at  the  back)  A  happy  life,  love,  adoration,  idolatry 
— (Pointing  to  the  door  at  the  left)  Middle-class  ex- 
istence, the  end  of  all  poetry,  youth,  beauty! 

HELENE 

(After  a  long  silence)     What  is  your  name? 

ACHILLE 

Ah,  of  course — here  it  is. 
\^He  hands  her  a  card. 

HELENE 

(Puzzled)     Ax s? 

ACHILLE 

AxtXXcvs:  yes,  a  student  of  Leconte  de  Lisle.     AxtAXtis 
in  Greek ;  Achille  in  French.    What  is  your  name? 


THEY!  265 

HELENE 

Helene. 

ACHILLE 

{Radiantly)  Oh,  joy  supreme!  The  capture  of 
Helen  by  Achilles :  it's  so  Greek,  so  antique,  so  Pari- 
sian !  Now  let  us  go — they  will  be  here  in  a  moment : 
your  husband  and  my  wife 

HELENE 

But  what  will  they  do? 

ACHILLE 

They — they  will  do  likewise ! 

[They  go  out  through  the  door  at  the  back.  The 
moment  they  disappear  the  other  bride  and  bride- 
groom enter,  right  and  left. 

THE  BKIDE  AND  THE  BRIDEGROOM 

{Together,  as  they  lift  their  arms  to  Heaven)  Oooh! 

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